SOPHIE 

A    COMEDY- 

BY  PHILIP  MOELLER 


WITH  A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER  BY 

CARL    VAN    VECHTEN 


".  .  .  la  seule  courtisane  de  Vage 
d'or  des  filles:  Sophie  Arnould" 

De  Goncourt. 


NEW  YORK:  ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
PHILIP  MOELLER 


In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performances  of  it  may  be  given  without 
the  permission  of  the  author  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of 
the  publisher.  Any  piracy  or  infringement  will  be  prosecuted  in 
accordance  with  the  penalties  provided  by  the  United  States 
Statutes: — 

SEC.  4966. —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition,  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  the  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  or  assigns,  shall  be 
liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the 
Court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year. —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


To 

CARL  VAN  VECHTEN 

Who  first  gave  me  the  key  to 

Sophie's  dressing  room 

and  to 

EMILY  STEVENS 

Who  was  waiting  when  the 

knob  was  turned. 


422344 


$0. 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

One  of  the  favourite  theories  of  the  somewhat 
overrated  George  Henry  Lewes  has  it  that  the  ap 
plause  vouchsafed  the  actor,  the  interpreter,  is  pro 
portionately  much  greater  during  his  lifetime  than 
that  allotted  to  the  creative  artist,  because  the  inter 
preter  disappears  when  he  dies  and  is  forgotten, 
while  the  great  creative  artist  lives  in  his  work  even 
after  death,  his  fame  rolling  up  with  the  passing 
generations.  It  is  no  purpose  of  mine  entirely  to 
discredit  this  theory,  but  the  fact  remains  that 
there  are  actors  who  have  a  longer  lease  on  fame 
than  equally  worthy  creative  artists.  The  irony 
lies  in  the  axiom  that  the  creative  artist  who  is  the 
most  applauded  by  his  contemporaries  is  usually 
the  soonest  to  be  forgotten  by  succeeding  centuries, 
while  the  actor  who  is  the  most  applauded  while 
he  is  yet  alive  is  the  longest  remembered  by  those 
who  come  after.  And  if  you  make  up  a  com 
parative  list  of  players  and  playwrights  of  past 
periods  who  still  haunt  the  memory  and  the  imag 
ination,  I  am  willing  to  wager  that  the  list  of  actors 
will  be  the  longer  one.  Nell  Gwyn,  David  Gar- 
rick,  Mrs.  Siddons,  Clairon,  Peg  Woffington,  Edwin 

Booth,  Lotta,  Salvini,  and  Rachel  have  so  impressed 

vii 


viii     A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

themselves  on  the  popular  consciousness  through 
their  lives  and  the  accounts  of  them  which  still  ex 
ist,  that  they  have  taken  as  definite  a  place  in  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  the  people  as  the  great  char 
acters  of  fiction,  Sancho  Panza,  Mr.  Pickwick,  Tar- 
tarin,  Bazarov,  and  Daisy  Miller.  We  need  have 
no  fear,  to  introduce  a  modern  note,  that  the  name 
of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  the  French  Jewess,  who  defied 
the  laws  of  the  Theatre  Frangais,  who  defied  the 
laws  of  society  to  such  an  extent  that  on  one  still- 
celebrated  occasion  she  permitted  her  actual  lover, 
Jean  Richepin,  to  enact  the  role  of  her  stage  lover 
in  his  own  piece,  Nana-Sahib,  who  defied  the 
laws  of  Nature,  making  her  audience  forget  that 
Marguerite  Gautier  was  seventy-five  years  old  and 
had  but  one  leg — we  need  have  no  fear,  I  say,  that 
this  name  is  not  a  thousand  times  more  eternal  and 
amaranthine  than  that  of  Victorien  Sardou,  in 
whose  dramas  she  won  the  suffrage  of  the  great  pub 
lic.  Her  epitaph,  indeed,  might  be  that  which  Vol 
taire,  or  another,  wrote  for  Adrienne  Lecouvreur: 

"L9 opinion  etoit  si  forte 
Quelle  devoit  tou jours  durer; 
Qu   apres  meme  quelle  jut  morte, 
On  refusa  de  Venterrer" 

Not  the  least  of  the  names  that  have  come  down 
to  us  from  the  mauve  and  pale-green  past  of  the 
exquisite  eighteenth  century  is  that  of  the  extraor- 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER   ix 

dinary  Sophie  Arnould,  whose  fragrant  cogno 
men  might  have  been  perpetuated  alone  through 
Gluck's  famous  remark  that  without  her  he  never 
could  have  presented  his  Iphigenie  en  Aulide  to 
Paris.  But  aside  from  her  eminence  as  the  greatest 
lyric  artist  of  her  period,  she  was  very  beautiful 
and  very  witty,  and  the  details  of  her  life  were 
dramatic  and  intriguing  enough  to  have  furnished 
material  for  a  score  of  epic  poems  and  romances. 
What  verses  Alexander  Pope  might  have  composed 
in  honour  of  the  goings  on  of  Sophie,  had  Clio  per 
mitted  him  to  live  a  little  later!  Mademoiselle 
Arnould  was  the  friend  of  the  great  men  of  her 
day:  Beaumarchais,  Marmontel,  Duclos,  Helve- 
tius,  Diderot,  even  Benjamin  Franklin,  all  came  to 
her  salon.  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  visited  her  at 
least  once,  and  Voltaire's  appearance  on  her  hearth 
stone  assumes,  in  its  historical  guise,  almost  the 
semblance  of  a  pilgrimage.  Her  wit  won  their  at 
tention,  and  her  humanity  their  hearts.  Her 
tongue,  when  at  its  best,  was  capable  of  producing 
masterpieces  of  word  humour;  her  less  acceptable 
sallies  were  made  in  the  form  of  paronomasia. 
These  epigrams  wormed  their  way  into  many  eigh 
teenth-century  volumes  of  recollections,  memoirs, 
and  letters,  and  after  her  death  they  were  collected 
and  issued  under  the  title,  Arnoldiana.  Many 
of  them  are  still  in  daily  use  in  France. 

The  artists  of  the  epoch  all  desired  to  reproduce 


x        A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

Sophie's  beauty.  Greuze's  portrait  is  perhaps  the 
most  adorable  of  the  list.  This  picture  also  repre 
sents  Greuze  at  a  better  advantage  than  the  more 
celebrated  Cruche  Cassee  in  the  Louvre.  The  early 
engravings  of  this  Broken  Pitcher,  by  the  way,  were 
dedicated  by  the  painter  to  Mademoiselle  Arnould. 
Greuze,  of  course,  does  not  suggest  the  Iphigenie; 
it  is  in  La  Tour's  portrait  that  we  recognize  the 
great  tragic  actress.  There  is  further  a  bust  by 
Houdon  which,  when  the  revolutionists  burst  into 
her  house,  once  served  Sophie  in  good  stead.  She 
dubbed  the  head  Marat  and  saved  her  own. 

Sophie  Arnould  was  born  in  Paris,  February  14, 
1740.  Her  parents  appear  to  have  been  respect 
able  members  of  the  upper  middle  class;  her 
mother,  indeed,  was  a  frequenter  of  literary  circles 
and  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  men  who  inspired 
her  with  an  ambition  to  give  her  daughter  a  thor 
ough  education.  So  Sophie  studied  reading  and 
writing,  foreign  languages,  the  spinet,  and  singing. 
At  the  age  of  ten,  or  thereabouts,  her  charm,  her 
wit,  her  beauty,  and  her  talent  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  the  Princess  of  Modena,  who  thereafter 
made  herself  responsible  for  the  child's  educa 
tion. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  period,  more  fashion 
able  than  pious,  for  ladies  of  the  great  world  to  se 
clude  themselves  in  convents  during  the  latter  part 
of  Lent.  At  the  beginning  of  Holy  Week,  1757, 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER   xi 

the  Princess  arrived  at  the  Abbey  of  Panthemont 
to  discover  the  sisters  in  a  state  of  consternation. 
They  included  in  their  numbers  a  nun  with  an  ex 
ceptionally  beautiful  voice  who  had  been  counted 
on  to  supply  the  music  during  the  retreat  but  she 
had  been  taken  ill.  On  Wednesday  fashionable 
Paris  would  come  to  hear  the  Tenebrae  and  there 
was  no  one  to  sing  it.  The  Princess  offered  Sophie 
as  a  solution,  and  the  following  day  when  she  sang 
the  Miserere  of  Lalande  the  church  was  crowded, 
so  quickly  had  travelled  the  news  of  the  girl's  re 
markable  singing.  The  Queen  heard  of  this  and 
sent  for  Sophie;  Madame  de  Pompadour  heard  of 
this  and  sent  for  Sophie.  The  Queen  desired  So 
phie  for  her  private  choir,  but  the  King,  through 
the  royal  mistress,  destined  her  for  the  Academic 
Royale  de  Musique.  Now  it  was  common  knowl 
edge  that  those  who  entered  the  stage  door  of  the 
Opera  were  forced  to  leave  behind  an  indispensable 
part  of  the  definition  of  the  word  maiden.  Sophie's 
mother,  therefore,  strove  to  conceal  her  daughter 
in  a  convent,  but,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  it 
was  impossible  to  find  an  abbess  willing  to  brave 
the  anger  of  royalty  and  its  mistress.  Sophie,  ac 
cordingly,  was  engaged  at  the  Opera.  At  first  it 
was  intended  that  she  should  become  a  member  of 
the  sacred  choir  connected  with  that  institution,  but 
talent  was  at  a  low  ebb.  Looking  for  a  novelty  to 
stir  the  pulse  of  the  apathetic  public,  the  directors 


xii      A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

injected  Sophie  into  an  opera-ballet  called  Les 
Amours  des  Dieux  on  December  15,  1757.  The 
singer  made  her  debut  at  the  age  of  seventeen  and 
was  immediately  launched  on  a  brilliantly  success 
ful  career. 

In  the  meantime  her  father  had  become  an  inn 
keeper,  and  a  charming  Norman  painter,  hight 
Dorval,  became  a  paying  guest  at  his  house.  Dor- 
val's  linen  was  of  the  finest;  his  taste  in  dress  ex 
quisite.  Indeed  he  must  have  been  quite  as  opera- 
comique  as  the  farmers  and  shepherdesses  of  the 
Trianon.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  huge  bas 
kets  of  game  and  fruit  which  arrived  from  day  to 
day,  the  Arnoulds  seem  to  have  suspected  nothing 
until  the  morning  dawned  when  both  Sophie  and 
Dorval  were  missing.  A  little  later  Arnould  pere 
received  a  letter  in  which  Dorval  unmasked  and 
appeared  in  his  true  character  as  Louis  Leon  Fe- 
licite  de  Brancas,  Comte  de  Lauraguais.  He 
adored  Sophie,  he  asseverated,  and  when  his  wife 
died  he  would  marry  her.  By  way  of  warning  to 
parents  who  credit  such  promises,  I  might  state 
that  the  Comtesse  de  Lauraguais  only  expired  on 
the  guillotine  some  half  century  later.  The  love 
of  the  Comte  and  Sophie  continued  unabated  for  a 
few  years;  then  there  came  a  break.  During  one 
of  his  absences  Sophie  packed  her  two  sons  and  all 
the  Comte's  presents  into  a  carriage  and  dispatched 
them  to  the  Comtesse,  who  established  the  duties  of 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER     xiii 

wronged  wives  for  all  time  by  retaining  the  chil 
dren  and  bringing  them  up  with  her  own  and  re 
turning  the  presents.  Later  Sophie  presented  the 
Comte  with  two  more  children.  In  fact  periodi 
cally  they  renewed  their  romance,  the  one  grand 
passion  in  both  their  lives,  although  both  were  as 
inconstant  as  rabbits  and  guinea  pigs  and  for 
every  new  lover  of  Sophie's  Lauraguais  retaliated 
with  a  new  mistress.  But  they  remained  friends 
until  death  parted  them,  a  fact  to  which  Sophie's 
last  letter  to  the  Comte  bears  touching  and  con 
vincing  evidence. 

The  reader  may  believe  that  Mr.  Moeller  has 
resorted  to  burlesque  in  his  quaint  picture  of 
Lauraguais  but,  judging  by  the  facts,  I  feel,  on  the 
contrary,  that  he  has  underdrawn  rather  than  over 
drawn  this  strange  character  of  whom  Voltaire 
wrote,  "He  has  all  possible  talents  and  all  possible 
eccentricities."  He  did  write  plays,  mad  five- 
act  tragedies,  and  insane  comedies,  and  it  is  per 
fectly  true  that  his  pamphlet  on  inoculation,  which 
at  that  period  was  considered  as  a  form  of  black 
magic,  did  cause  his  detention  at  Metz.  The  Comte 
further  dabbled  in  chemistry  and  anatomy,  endeav 
oured  to  bring  about  reforms  in  the  theatre,  and 
even  became  a  gentleman  jockey.  He  was  con 
stantly  running  into  collision  with  royalty  and  the 
courts ;  he  was  one  of  the  early  aristocratic  radicals. 
He  was  a  delicious  whimsical  paraphrase  of  the 


xiv     A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

eighteenth  century  encyclopedist  and  it  is  to  his  un 
fading  credit  that,  in  one  fantastic  flight  of  his 
winged  imagination  and  in  order  to  rid  Sophie 
of  an  attendant  bore,  he  actually  brought  and 
substantiated  by  scientific  authority  the  charge  of 
the  new  method  of  assassination  with  which  Sophie 
in  Mr.  Moeller's  comedy  ejects  the  Ambassador  of 
Austria  from  her  triumphant  presence.  It  is  prob 
able  that  the  Cornte  was  the  only  real  love  in 
Sophie's  life,  although  her  subsequent  turpitudes 
were  many,  including  relations  with  the  Prince 
d'Henin,  whom  she  detested,  and  Belanger,  the  ar 
chitect,  who,  with  Lauraguais,  remained  her  friend 
until  she  died. 

Sophie  Arnould's  voice  was  not  powerful.  "Na 
ture,"  she  has  written  in  her  Memoires,  "had  sec 
onded  my  taste  for  music  with  a  tolerably  agreeable 
voice,  weak  but  sonorous,  though  not  extremely  so. 
But  it  was  sound  and  well-balanced,  so  that  with  a 
clear  pronunciation  and  without  any  defect  save  a 
slight  lisp,  which  could  hardly  be  considered  a 
fault,  not  a  word  of  what  I  sang  was  lost,  even  in 
the  most  spacious  buildings."  It  is  to  be  observed 
that  clear  enunciation  is  an  inevitable  part  of  the 
baggage  of  great  dramatic  singers.  Contemporary 
critics  give  her  more  credit  than  she  gave  herself; 
according  to  their  evidence  her  voice  was  sweet  in 
quality,  and  she  possessed  the  gift  of  imparting  to 
it  colour  and  expression.  The  Goncourts  have  sum- 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER   xv 

marized  the  case:  "She  brought  to  harmony,  emo 
tion;  to  the  song,  compassion;  to  the  play  of  the 
voice,  sentiment.  She  charmed  the  ear  and 
touched  the  heart.  All  the  domain  of  the  tender 
drama,  all  the  graces  of  terror,  were  hers.  She 
possessed  the  cry,  and  the  tears,  and  the  sigh,  and 
the  caresses  of  the  pathetic.  .  .  .  What  art,  what 
genius,  must  there  have  been  to  wrest  so  many  har 
monies  from  a  contemptible  voice,  a  feeble  throat." 
These  words  can  hardly  be  misunderstood.  So 
phie  was,  indeed,  the  first,  perhaps,  of  the  great 
dramatic  singers,  those  who  not  only  act  with  their 
bodies  but  with  their  singing  voices.  David  Gar- 
rick  pronounced  her  a  greater  actress  than  Clairon. 
What  Mary  Garden  is  to  the  contemporary  lyric 
stage,  Sophie  Arnould  was  to  the  stage  of  the  late 
eighteenth  century. 

Before  Gluck  came  to  Paris,  French  lyric  art 
was  fast  ebbing  out  its  life.  Pastiches  formed  most 
of  the  bills,  opera-ballets  with  five  acts  and  five 
plots,  or  rearrangements  of  minor  masterworks. 
Even  from  these  Sophie  wrested  a  tremendous  rep 
utation,  just  as  Sarah  Bernhardt  has  defied  the 
world  of  actresses  with  the  clap-trap  of  Sardou, 
and  Mary  Garden  has  won  recognition  as  the  great 
est  lyric  artist  of  her  day  as  much  as  anything 
through  her  performance  in  Massenet's  meretri 
cious  Thais.  The  titles  of  the  trifles  in  which  So 
phie  appeared,  however,  are  very  pretty  and  sug- 


xvi     A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

gest  the  powder-puffery,  the  wigs,  the  flowered 
gowns,  the  pregnant  artificiality  of  what  must  ever 
remain  in  the  memory  as  a  graceful  and  gracious 
period.  Alphee  et  Arethuse,  Pyrrhus  et  Polixene, 
Dardanus,  Les  Fetes  de  Paphos,  Castor  et  Pollux, 
Psyche,  Thetis  et  Peleus,  Les  Dieux  d'Egypte, 
Sylvie,  Palmire,  Aline,  Reine  de  Golconde,  and  La 
Terre  were  some  of  the  fragrant  names.  Sophie's 
repertory  included  works  by  Lully,  Rameau,  Mon- 
signy,  and  Rousseau,  in  whose  Devin  de  Village  she 
appeared  in  a  boy's  part,  but  of  all  the  operas  she 
sang  only  the  two  works  of  Gluck  retain  the  stage 
today. 

Nature  always  provides  ways  and  means  for 
those  who  provide  for  themselves.  Every  great 
reformer  in  opera  has  had  his  corresponding  inter 
preter  who  has  brought  about  reforms  in  her  own 
field  as  sweeping  as  those  introduced  by  the  com 
poser.  Debussy  had  Mary  Garden;  Wagner,  Ma 
dame  Schroeder-Devrient ;  Gluck,  Sophie  Arnould. 
There  is  indeed  a  fascinating  similarity  to  be  noted 
between  the  personalities  and  talents  of  Sophie 
Arnould  and  Mary  Garden.  Like  Sophie,  Mary 
is  a  great  actress;  she  also  moulds  her  voice  to  suit 
the  new  word ;  she  also  is  a  very  witty  woman.  In 
deed  I  can  remember  story  after  story  about  Mary 
Garden  that  would  be  absolutely  in  character  with 
Sophie  Arnould,  and  if  a  composer  should  hit  upon 
the  ingenious  idea  of  making  a  rococo  opera  of  Mr. 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER    xvii 

Moeller's  comedy  it  seems  inevitable  that  Mary 
Garden  should  be  chosen  to  enact  the  role  of  the 
heroine. 

Mr.  Moeller,  with  complete  justification,  has  dis 
torted  some  historical  facts  in  his  arrangement  of 
his  play.  Sophie  did,  in  a  sense,  resort  to  intrigue 
to  capture  the  role  of  Iphigenie  but  not  in  the  man 
ner  he  suggests.  The  production  of  Iphigenie  en 
Aulide  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  four  or  five  de 
cisive  battles  in  the  history  of  music  drama,  and 
Sophie  played  by  no  means  a  small  part  in  its  suc 
cess.  Later  she  appeared  as  Euridice  in  Gluck's 
Parisian  arrangement  of  Orpheus.  But  Rosalie 
Levasseur  "created"  Alceste. 

The  causes  for  Sophie's  decline  and  fall  are  not 
difficult  to  gauge.  Her  voice,  none  too  good  in  the 
beginning,  began  to  fail  her,  and  she  could  not  al 
ways  depend  on  it,  nor  is  there  reason  to  believe 
that  on  every  occasion  did  she  make  any  effort  to 
please  the  public  before  which  she  was  appearing. 
Then  her  wickedly  witty  tongue  made  her  an  object 
of  fear,  dread,  and  hate  to  many  of  her  comrades 
in  the  theatre,  and  her  caprices  were  so  flagrant 
that  an  opera  director  of  today  would  probably  com 
mit  suicide  in  face  of  them.  For  weeks  at  a  time 
she  would  refuse  to  sing  at  all,  thereby  seriously 
embarrassing  a  management  which  in  any  case  was 
embarrassed  enough  for  real  talent;  even  the  fact 
that  she  was  announced  to  sing  did  not  sanction 


xviii  A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

any  belief  that  she  would.  At  the  last  moment  she 
frequently  sent  word  that  she  was  ill;  on  one  occa 
sion  she  sent  no  word  at  all,  but  came  and  sat  in  a 
box  at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  when  pressed  for 
an  explanation  declared  that  she  had  come  to  take 
a  lesson  from  her  understudy.  In  the  circum 
stances  one  can  understand  the  hisses  that  greeted 
her^  final  appearances,  inspired  partly  by  a  natural 
feeling  of  grievance  on  the  side  of  the  public; 
partly,  doubtless,  by  a  management  that  wished  to 
rid  itself  permanently  of  such  a  menace  to  order 
and  discipline.  And  the  presence  of  Marie  An 
toinette  on  more  than  one  occasion  did  not  serve  to 
stem  the  tide  of  disapproval,  for  the  very  simple 
reason  that  the  cold  Queen  was  as  unpopular  in 
Paris  as  any  royalty  could  be. 

Poor  Sophie  definitely  retired  from  the  stage  in 
1778,  when  she  was  but  thirty-eight  years  old,  and 
soon  thereafter  life  for  her  became  a  constant  strug 
gle.  She  was  granted  a  pension  by  the  Govern 
ment  but  she  found  it  difficult  to  collect  it.  When 
a  benefit  at  the  Opera  in  her  behalf  was  proposed, 
she  refused  to  consider  it  when  she  learned  that  a 
condition  would  be  her  personal;  appearance.  The 
Revolution  tore  away  from  her  what  small  means 
she  had,  and  the  last  few  years  of  her  life  were  as 
tragic  as  those  of  any  of  the  heroines  she  had  rep 
resented  on  the  stage.  She  did  not,  however,  lose 
her  friends,  Lauraguais  and  Belanger,  who  re- 


A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER     xix 

mained  faithful  to  the  end,  although  they  too  had 
lost  the  power  to  assist  her  in  any  material  manner. 
Her  letters  to  these  men  in  her  last  years  are  very 
beautiful.  Sophie  died  on  October  22,  1802,  and 
where  she  is  buried  nobody  knows.  She  was  born 
on  Saint  Valentine's  Day,  the  first  words  she  sang 
on  the  stage  were  "Charmant  Amour,"  and  as  she 
was  dying  the  Cure  of  St.  Germain  1'Auxerois 
leaned  over  her  bed  to  hear  her  mutter,  "Her  sins, 
which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for  she  loved  much." 
So  the  love  motif  was  woven  through  her  life  like  a 
theme  in  a  symphony. 

Mr.  Moeller  has  chosen  in  his  charming  comedy, 
the  most  charming  and  the  most  brilliant  to  my  way 
of  thinking  that  has  yet  issued  from  his  pen,  to  ig 
nore  the  tragedy,  the  heartache,  the  pain  in  poor 
Sophie's  history.  The  hisses  of  the  people,  the 
poverty  and  squalor  of  her  last  years,  offer  tempt 
ing  material  for  another  play  which  he  may  write 
later.  His  fable,  in  the  present  instance,  is  wholly 
apocryphal,  although  it  is  based  on  history  at  cru 
cial  points.  The  fact  to  be  emphasized  is  that  he 
has  lighted  up  the  atmosphere  and  the  period,  and 
re-created  character.  Sophie  lives  in  this  comedy, 
lives  as  she  must  have  lived  at  the  height  of  her  ca 
reer;  she  breathes  and  exists;  we  understand  her 
and  feel  with  her;  we  know  that  the  playwright  has 
set  her  down  with  an  unerring  instinct  for  essentials. 
Occasionally  he  has  used  some  of  her  own  epigrams 


xx   A  PROLOGUE  FOR  THE  READER 

but  he  has  written  plenty  of  others  of  his  own  which 
seem  to  be  born  of  the  same  gay  spirit.  This,  to 
me,  is  the  ideal  form  of  historical  play,  yielding  to 
history,  but  not  episodic,  standing  on  its  own  ground 
and  playing  lights  on  period  and  character,  inval 
uable  to  the  loving  student  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury.  To  those  who  have  hitherto  been  ignorant  of 
the  name  of  this  fascinating  woman  it  will  straight 
way  have  the  effect  of  sending  them  scurrying 
through  the  records,  and  they  will  not  be  disap 
pointed,  but  it  would  be  no  surprise  to  me  if  the 
adorable  Sophie  would  henceforth  be  identified  in 
the  public  mind  with  the  heroine  of  a  comedy  which 
is  as  good  as  any  in  the  best  traditions  of  the  Eng 
lish  stage  and  which  establishes  a  new  standard  on 
the  American  stage. 

CARL  VAN  VECHTEN. 

September  9,  1919 

New  York 


THE  CHARACTERS  ARE: 

MARIE  GUIMARD,  the  dancer,  Sophie's  neighbour. 
MLLE.  ABIGALETTE  HEINEL,  the  dancer,  Sophie's  worship 
per. 

SOPHIE'S  THIRD  LACKEY. 
SOPHIE'S  SECOND  LACKEY. 
SOPHIE'S  FIRST  LACKEY. 
THE  ABBE  DE  VOISENON,  Sophie's  confessor. 
SOPHIE. 

ROSALIE  LEVASSEUR,  Sophie's  rival. 
Louis  LEON  FELICITE  DE  BRANCAS,  COUNT  DE  LAURA- 

GUAIS,  Sophie's  "Dorval." 
VIVIENNE,  Sophie's  visitor. 
CHRISTOPH   WILLIBALD   RITTER   VON   GLUCK,   Sophie's 

composer. 
MERCY  D'ARGENTEAU,  the  Austrian  Ambassador,  Sophie's 

thorn. 

CAPTAIN  ETIENNE  MARS,  Sophie's  bridegroom. 
THE  COUNT  DE  SAINT-FLORENTIN,  the  Chief  of  Police, 

Sophie's  dread. 
Sophie's  soldiers  and  the  Soldiers  who  come  for  Sophie's 

arrest. 

THE  SCENES  ARE: 

Act  I.  Half -past  seven,  which  leaves  Sophie  in  a  quan 
dary. 

Act  II.     Half -past  nine,  which  leaves  Sophie  in  danger. 

Act  III.  Half -past  eleven,  which  leaves  Sophie  almost 
alone. 


ACT  I 

Half -past  seven,  which 
leaves  Sophie  in  a  quandary. 


ACT  I 

THE  SCENE  is  SOPHIE'S  little  drawing  room  adjoin 
ing  her  boudoir  in  the  house  of  the  Austrian 
Ambassador  in  Paris.  The  apartment  is  the 
miniature  chef  d'ouvre  of  the  architect  Be- 
longer.  He  has  put  all  his  talent  as  an  artist 
and  all  his  adoration  of  SOPHIE  into  the  crea 
tion  of  the  room  and  the  result  is  exquisite. 
All  the  delicate  finesse  of  the  style  of  Louis 
Quinze  is  in  the  workmanship.  Every  detail 
is  controlled  on  the  happy  side  of  grace;  the 
chairs  are  done  in  petite  pointe,  each  silently 
telling  its  noisy  tale  of  love;  the  designs  of  the 
furniture  tapestries  as  well  as  the  painted 
panels  of  the  harpsichord  are  in  the  most  deli 
cately  fragrant  style  of  Boucher.  On  one  of 
the  walls  is  a  La  Tour  pastel  of  the  Comte 
de  Brancas  Lauraguais,  on  another,  over  the 
mantelpiece  is  Greuze's  portrait  of  SOPHIE 
which  today  graces  the  Wallace  collection  in 
London.  All  about  the  room  are  those  ex 
quisite,  varied,  tiny,  necessities  of  femininity. 
On  the  harpsichord,  for  instance,  is  a  small 
vase  painted  in  cupids  which,  alas,  is  later  to 
be  splintered  on  the  altar  of  SOPHIE'S  tempera 
ment.  Here  and  there  are  little  gilded  caskets, 

pillows  of  the  faintest  lace;  in  fact,  all  the 

7 


/    SOPHIE [ACT  I 

diite  Mings  that  SOPHIE  loves  but 
which  she  would  not  hesitate  to  throw  at  your 
head  if  the  moment  so  demanded. 
It  is  twilight.  The  room  is  lit  with  the  glow  from 
the  pink  shaded  candelabra.  Surely  this  is 
the  shrine  of  a  slightly  languid  but  utterly  con 
tented  nymph.  But  no,  the  conclusion  is  too 
swift.  Look  a  little  closer.  Is  not  that  a  band 
of  lugubrious  mourning  about  the  picture  of 
de  Lauraguais?  Are  not  the  flowers  on  the 
harpsichord  of  the  sombre  hues  of  purple  and 
of  a  cornflower  whose  blue  is  almost  black? 
Yes,  tragedy  is  on  tip-toe  in  SOPHIE'S  charm 
ing  drawing-room  and  that  is  why  MLLE.  HEI 
NEL  is  weeping  as  she  speaks. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[To  MARIE  GUIMARD.] 

That's  her  coach.  Yes — yes —  [they  are  both  at 
the  window]  at  last — at  last — no,  it  is  passing. 
[She  is  sobbing.]  Sophie!  What  has  become  of 
her? 

GUIMARD 

Abigalette,  you  must  be  calm.  It's  not  ten  min 
utes  since  she  drove  away  and  it  takes  at  least  fif 
teen  to  reach  the  palace  of  the  Minister  of  State. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[With  hysterics  in  the  offing.] 
I  know,  I  know,  but  I've  never  seen  our  Sophie 


ACT  I]  SOPHIE 


like  this.  That  is  what  krve  does  to:  -us  fragile 
women.  Love,  cruel  love!  It  is  because  my  own 
heart  has  bled  that  I  bleed  for  Sophie.  Why  has 
God  made  us  women  so  sensitive?  I  never  hear  of 
an  eruption  taking  place  in  Naples  but  I'm  all  of  a 
tremble  here  in  Paris.  Are  you  never  moved, 
Marie? 

GUIMARD 

Sometimes  when  I  dance  before  His  Majesty  and 
always  when  Sophie  is  kind  to  Rosalie  Levasseur. 
It  is  when  she  smiles  at  Rosalie  that  I'm  most  stirred 
for  then  I  know  that  behind  the  rosy  petals  of  her 
smile  her  adorable  little  tongue  is  waiting  to  smite. 
Soon  I  think  Sophie  will  give  her  Austrian  Ambas 
sador  back  to  Rosalie. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Surely  she  doesn't  keep  him  chained  for  love? 
My  coiffeuse  says  her  husband  says  —  and  he  is  a 
squint-eyed  man,  Marie,  and  sees  many  things  when 
people  do  not  think  he's  looking  —  she  says,  he  says 
that  if  the  hair  dye  that  the  Austrian  Ambassador 
uses  were  brewed  into  a  soup  and  if  the  King  could 
manage  to  have  the  Queen,  Marie  Leginska,  drink 
it  that  that  would  be  a  sure  way  of  sending  Her 
Majesty  straight  to  God.  No,  His  Excellency  is  old 
enough  to  be  our  Sophie's  grandpapa.  Surely  it  is 
not  for  love  she  holds  him. 


SOPHIE  [ACT  I 


They  say  not,  darling,  but  then  who  knows, — we 
women —  [the  sound  of  a  coach  rumbling  by]  that's 
she!  [They're  again  at  the  window.]  No,  the 
coach  has  passed.  [She  pulls  the  bell  rope.]  Per 
haps  some  word  has  come,  perhaps  she  has  sent  a 
message.  Maybe  there  is  something  we  can  do. 
[THE  THIRD  LACKEY  enters.] 

GUIMARD 
Is  there  any  sight  of  Madame's  coach? 

THE  THIRD  LACKEY 

No,  Madame,  but  my  neck  is  nearly  broke  leaning 
out  and  looking  up  and  down  the  street. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Has  no  word  come?     Nothing? 

THE  THIRD  LACKEY 
Nothing. 

GUIMARD 
Are  you  sure? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Hasn't  something  come?     Something  with  a  big 
seal  that  you  know  would  be  important? 

THE  THIRD  LACKEY 

Nothing,  Madame,  whilst  I  have  been  at  the  door 
telling  people  that  Madame  would  see  no  one.     One 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 11 

young  lady  has  come  three  times  and  gone  away 
again. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Pulling  the  bell  rope.] 

I  will  ask  the  lackey  that  we  sent  to  the  garden 
gate,  he  must  have  some  news.  [Then  again,  ex 
citedly.]  Marie,  I  never  was  so  worried  in  my  life. 

GUIMARD 
You  must  be  calm,  Abigalette. 

[THE  SECOND  LACKEY  enters.] 

GUIMARD 

Is  there  no  word  from  Madame?  Has  she  yet 
returned? 

THE  SECOND  LACKEY 
Not  yet,  Madame. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Has  no  letter  come,  something  with  a  big  seal? 
Nothing? 

THE  SECOND  LACKEY 

Well,  to  be  precise,  Madame,  some  twenty  bills, 
but  Madame  Arnould  never  sees  the  bills.  They 
are  immediately  sent  to  the  fourth  secretary  of  His 
Honour,  the  Ambassador. 

GUIMARD 
Where  is  the  other  lackey? 


12  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

THE  SECOND  LACKEY 

Madame,  not  five  minutes  back  you  sent  him  up 
to  the  roof  to  look  through  Madame's  telescope  to 
see  if  she  were  coming. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Yes,  send  him  down. 

[The  two  LACKEYS  with  a  very  formal  bow 
make  their  exit.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Tearfully.] 

Ah,  that  adorable  telescope.  It  was  through  that 
that  he  [she  points  dramatically  to  the  COUNT'S  pic 
ture]  that  he  used  to  read  the  history  of  the  stars. 
Marie,  I  am  sure  something  has  gone  wrong.  So 
phie  has  failed.  She  will  fall  into  a  decline.  She 
will  be  unable  to  rehearse  tonight.  Papa  Gluck 
will  be  so  angry  with  her  that  he  will  rush  back  to 
Vienna  before  the  premiere  of  his  opera  tomorrow 
night;  the  Dauphiness,  Marie  Antoinette,  will  order 
the  Royal  Academy  of  Music  closed.  We  will 
dance  no  more  this  season  and  my  legs  were  never 
so  much  a-tingle  and  my  toes  so  primed.  All— 
all  this  because  poor  Sophie  has — 
[FIRST  LACKEY  enters.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Have  you  seen  anything  of  Madame's  coach  from 
the  roof? 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 13 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  the  telescope  was  very  difficult  to  man 
age.  When  I  looked  through  and  thought  I  was  see 
ing  things  very  far  away  I  was  looking,  if  you 
please,  at  two  cats  engaged,  in  love  or  was  it  alter 
cation? — it  is  so  difficult  to  tell  with  canines — on 
the  chimney  pots  of  the  house  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  Roi — ladies,  I'm  not  sure  whether  it  was  the 
Rue  de  Roi  or — 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Never  mind  the  cats. 

GUIMARD 
What  of  Madame's  coach? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Of  that  I  saw  nothing. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Something  unforeseen  has  happened. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Yes,  Madame. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[  Tremblingly.  ] 
For  God's  sake  what? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

A  young  lady  in  a  hood  has  come  to  the  door 
three  times. 


14 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

GuiMARD 

And? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

She  insists  on  seeing  Madame.  Perhaps  she 
might  explain  Madame's  absence  or  what  has  hap 
pened  to  the  Count. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Why  didn't  you  ask  her? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[With  a  sly  look.] 

Madame,  I  did,  but  it  is  Mme.  Arnould  that  she 
must  see. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
You  lackeys  are  all  so  stupid.     Go! 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Yes,  Madame. 

[With  a  very  formal  bow  he  makes  his  exit.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Tragedy  is  brewing!  Who  is  this  girl?  What 
has  become  of  Sophie?  Where  is  De  Lauraguais? 
[Then  with  superstitious  awe.]  Marie,  last  night 
my  slipper  became  untied  just  before  my  pas  de 
seul.  Signor  Tortolini  was  in  a  dreadful  rage. 
It  always  means  bad  luck.  Marie,  you  know  I'm 
very  clairvoyant,  very,  very.  [And  then  as  proof 
incontrovertible.]  Doctor  Mesmer,  as  soon  as  he 


ACT  I] SOPHIE  15 

looked  at  me,  told  me  that  my  mother  had  blue 
eyes.  The  world — life — is  filled  with  endless 
mysteries.  I  know — how  I  know  I  don't  know — 
but  some  evil  has  befallen  Sophie. 

GUIMARD 

Nonsense,  Abigalette.  While  we  are  waiting 
shall  I  show  you  some  new  steps? 

[She  has  lifted  her  dainty  petticoat  and 
begins  twirling  about.} 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Shocked.] 

What?  You  would  dance  in  this  house  of 
mourning?  Don't  you  see  that  his  portrait  is 
draped  in  crepe  and  that  Sophie  has  all  the  flowers 
as  near  black  as  she  can  find  them?  There  are  no 
entirely  black  flowers.  That  is  because  Nature  does 
not  wish  that  beauty  should  be  associated  with  sad 
ness.  Life  is  so  full  of  unreadable  secrets. 
[There  is  a  sound  of  a  coach  stopping.]  Marie, 
that's  she, — she.  [They  are  at  the  window.]  No, 
that's  Rosalie's  coach. 

GUIMARD 
[Angrily.] 

Of  course,  that  big  crow  thinks  she  smells  a 
corpse.  Her  footman  has  brought  her  card  to  the 
door.  Surely  they  will  not  admit  her.  [A  pause.] 


16  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

No,  she  is  driving  off.     The  servants  will  allow  no 
one  in. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

What  time  is  it? 

GUIMARD 

Past  the  twilight.  Sophie  will  be  worn  out. 
How  can  she  sing  tonight? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

How  cruel  love  is.  Why  did  they  quarrel?  Do 
you  know? 

[She  is  standing  in  front  of  DE  LAURAGUAIS' 
picture  gazing  up  at  it  as  though  it  were  a 
Crucifixion  on  an  altar.] 

GUIMARD 

They  do  not  know  themselves.  Perhaps  she 
wouldn't  have  wanted  him  back  at  all  until  she 
heard  he  was  in  prison. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

[As  though  it  were  an  old  story.] 
But  why  there  this  time? 

GUIMARD 

Who  knows?  Perhaps  he  has  insulted  the  King 
or  been  boring  the  Dauphiness  beseeching  her  to 
allow  him  to  perform  this  new  disease  of  inocula 
tion  on  her  dog.  Maybe  his  pet  bear  has  been 
frightening  the  Royal  Household  or  perhaps  the 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 17 

Count  has  stood  on  his  head  before  the  Pope's  am 
bassador.  He  does  as  he  wishes  and  there  is  no 
place  for  such  people  except  in  jail  or  bed. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Sadly,  very  sadly.] 
Yes,  you  are  right. 

GUIMARD 

And  the  wilder  he  acts  the  dearer  he  is  to  So 
phie. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

[And  the  problem  is  too  deep  for  her.] 
And  now  she  must  have  him  back.  Now,  when 
she  is  installed  as  mistress  to  his  honour  the  Vien 
nese  Ambassador.  I  tell  you,  Marie,  that  the 
longer  I  live  the  less  I  know  of  life.  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  any  of  these  strange  passions  ever  affect 
us  dancers? 

GUIMARD 
[With  authority.] 

I  think  they  usually  begin  after  one's  seventh 
lover.     You  still  have  time. 

[Footsteps  are  heard  in  the  hall-way.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
At  last  it's  she. 

[The  voice  of  THE  FIRST  LACKEY  is  heard 
outside  announcing  the  ABBE  DE  VOISENON.] 


18 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

GUIMARD 

Sophie  insists  on  having  him  about.     He  is  the 
only  Abbe  who  can  do  justice  to  her  confessions. 
[THE  ABBE  enters.] 

THE  ABBE 

[With  urban  mansuetude.] 

Ladies,  good  evening.  [They  bow.]  Charm 
ing,  charming.  I  hope  the  angels  in  the  courts  of 
Paradise  will  be  as  graceful  as  you.  And  where 
is  Sophie? 

GUIMARD 
We  do  not  know. 

[MLLE.  HEINEL  is  weeping.] 

THE  ABBE 

What  is  this?  Has  there  been  trouble  with  this 
pompous  German,  this  Chevalier  Gluck,  this  writer 
of  tunes? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
No,  your  reverence,  it  is  something  else. 

[Instinctively  the  girls  turn  to  look  at  the 
portrait  of  the  COUNT.] 

THE  ABBE 
[Watching  them.] 
Ah!     So  it  is  De  Lauraguais  again. 

[And  MLLE.  HEINEL  deeply  sighs.] 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 19 

THE  ABBE 

[Taking  a  pinch  of  snuff. ~\ 
It  is  always  like  that  with  Sophie.  For  a  little 
while  De  Lauraguais  is  in  favour, — then  pouff! 
[And  he  scatters  the  dust  of  the  snuff  in  the  air.] 
She  sends  him  off  for  ever,  and  then  some  fine  morn 
ing — and  the  mornings  are  fine  in  Paris — she  hears 
he  is  for  the  thousandth  time  in  the  Prison  of  Fort 
Eveque.  He  has  broken  the  code  of  the  terrible 
Saint-Florentin.  He  has  disobeyed  the  laws  of 
this  odious  Minister  of  the  Police.  He  is  again  in 
jail.  Then  Sophie's  heart  melts  and  she  will  die 
unless  she  holds  her  Dorval  in  her  arms  again. 
What  is  this  love,  ladies,  this  fantastic  acrobat 
called  love? 

GUIMARD 
[Practically.] 
Well,  what? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Sighing.] 

What  indeed? 

THE  ABBE 

[And  he  enjoys  the  telling.] 

I  will  tell  you,  my  daughters.     Love  is  self -hood's 

most  subtle  disguise.     A  delicious  martyrdom,  an 

ecstatic  sacrifice,  a  lovely  mirror  in  which  we  see 

ourselves,  pitiful  or  gay;  a  great  big  bother  about  a 


20  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

small  bright  bubble — and  then  one  fine  morning — 
and  the  mornings  are  fine  in  Paris — pouff! — and  it 
is  gone.  [And  he  is  again  tossing  the  snuff  dust 
from  his  finger  tips.]  Ladies,  I  am  a  bachelor.  9 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Outraged.] 

Is  it  thus  you  speak  of  the  most  precious  thing 
in  life! 

THE  ABBE 

Yes,  you  are  right.  The  most  precious  thing  in 
life  is  love.  First  the  love  of  God  which  is  eternal 
hope,  then  the  love  of  oneself  which  is  our  common 
comfort,  then,  my  children,  the  love  of  some  one 
else  which  is  perpetual  disillusionment. 

GUIMARD 

[Wisely,  shaking  her  head.] 
You  have  learnt  that  from  listening  to  too  many 
sad  confessions. 

THE  ABBE 

I  have  learnt  that  because  I  have  peered  through 
the  veil  of  life  at  truth,  or  perhaps,  my  daughters, 
I  should  say  peeped,  because  one  learns  more  by 
peeping  than  by  peering. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Father! 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 21 

THE  ABBE 
You  do  not  know  where  Sophie  is? 

GUIMARD 

She  has  been  spending  the  day  seeking  an  audi 
ence  with  the  Ministers  of  France. 

THE  ABBE 
Has  she  so  soon  tired  of  the  Minister  of  Austria? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

One  doesn't  tire  of  what  has  never  begun.  To 
His  Excellency,  the  Minister  from  Vienna,  Sophie 
is,  as  all  Paris  knows  except  Your  Reverence,  Mis 
tress  in  title  only. 

THE  ABBE 

[For  the  news  is  news.] 
Indeed? 

GUIMARD 

Didn't  you  know  that?  With  Sophie  the  rela 
tionship  is  just  official,  but  when  Rosalie  lived  at 
the  Embassy  that  was  an  intimacy — how  shall  I 
put  it?  [and  she  hesitates] — an  intimacy  that  wore 
no  slippers. 

THE  ABBE 

And  how  many  weeks  has  Sophie  been  gracing 
the  Salon  of  D'Argenteau? 

GUIMARD 

Four,  and  how  triumphantly !     Do  you  know  that 


22 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

it  is  only  because  of  the  strictest  orders  from  His 
Majesty  that  the  Dauphiness  doesn't  come  to  So 
phie's  suppers  after  the  opera?  [And  on  she 
rushes.]  Everybody  in  the  world  is  mad  to  come, 
even  the  Papal  secretaries  have  used  the  influence 
of  Rome  to  obtain  a  card.  Don't  you  know  that 
a  nation  that  isn't  represented  at  our  Sophie's 
parties  is  considered  second  rate  in  our  world,  your 
Reverence? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[For  she  has  been  at  the  receptions.] 

On  Thursdays  her  reception  is  for  Ambassadors. 
It  is  then  that  Sophie  sometimes  consents  to  be  pres 
ent,  the  Ambassadors  must  take  their  chances.  On 
Saturdays  the  attaches  are  received,  but  of  course 
Sophie  is  usually  ill  on  Saturday,  and  on  Tuesdays, 
when  the  noble  world  of  Paris  treads  on  each  other's 
names  to  be  admitted,  why  our  dear  Sophie  is  al 
ways  away  in  the  country.  What  would  you  ex 
pect,  Father,  the  life  of  a  prima  donna  is  not  all 
song. 

GUIMARD 

Listen,  a  coach  has  stopped.  [She  is  at  the  win 
dow.]  Is  it  she?  No,  look,  Abigalette,  is  not  that 
the  livery  of  the  Court? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[At  the  window.] 
Yes,  yes.      [Ah,  if  it  were  only  at  her  house  that 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 23 

the  coach  were  stopping.']  See,  one  of  the  footmen 
leaves  a  card  for  Sophie.  All  the  world  is  at  her 
feet  begging  to  pay  her  homage  and  at  this  very 
moment  she  crucifies  her  heart  for  the  love  of  De 
Lauraguais.  Life  is  so  complex.  Father,  is  there 
no  key  to  the  mystery? 

THE  ABBE 

Trust  in  God,  my  daughters,  which  locks  the 
Pandora's  box  on  life  and  throws  the  key  into  the 
sea  of  faith. 

GUIMARD 

[Thinking,  with  her  lips.] 

I  think  you  would  be  better  understood  in  Rome 
than  Paris. 

THE  ABBE 

I  had  contemplated  making  myself  understood 
at  the  Vatican  until  Sophie  sent  for  me. 

GUIMARD 
And  now  you  cannot  tear  yourself  away. 

THE  ABBE 
What  would  you  have,  my  children,  she  needs  me. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

[SOPHIE'S  heart  is  a  book  to  her.] 
Yes,  yes. 

THE  ABBE 
And  besides  I  find  her  house  so  sympathetic. 


24 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

[And  then  as  testimony.]  Do  you  know,  that  next 
to  the  books  in  the  library  of  Mme.  du  Barry  and  at 
the  Cathedral,  that  she  has  the  best  collection  of  the 
Holy  Fathers  to  be  found  in  France? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Enthusiastically.  ] 
How  dear  of  Sophie. 

THE  ABBE 

Not  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  Mademoiselle, 
be  reassured.  Next  to  the  confessions  of  St.  Au 
gustine  is  an  inscribed  copy  from  Voltaire  and  be 
tween  the  life  of  St.  Louis  and  the  "Little  Flowers" 
of  Saint  Francis;  bounded  in  citron  levant,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  is  last  year's  number  of  the  Se 
cret  Memoirs  of  the  Police. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
How  dear  of  Sophie. 

THE  ABBE 

So  you  see  that  whilst  her  piety  is  catholic  her 
taste  is  mixed. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Very  deeply.] 

Dear,  dear  Sophie.  I  do  not  see  why  she  should 
suffer  with  all  those  good  books  in  the  house. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 25 

THE  ABBE 

Between  ourselves,  ladies,  I  think  that  she  enjoys 
her  tears. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Again  outraged.] 

Oh,  what  a  horrid,  cynical  idea!  Poor  Sophie, 
rushing  about  like  mad,  her  heart  torn  with  desire 
and  you,  you  in  her  very  house  here  say  that  agony 
is  not  agony.  I  don't  see  how  she  can  have  you  for 
a  friend — and  to  confess  to  you — why  look,  Marie, 
his  very  eyes  are  made  of  ice.  I'm  sure  he's  as 
cold  as  it  must  be  three  feet  beyond  the  North  Pole. 
To  my  mind,  the  one  thing  a  priest  should  have  is 
the  milk — the  pure  white  milk  of  human  kindness. 

SOPHIE 

[From  the  doorway.  ] 
Not  in  too  great  abundance  lest  it  sour  on  him. 

[/  see  her,  if  for  the  moment  I  may  intrude, 
in  a  turquoise  blue,  a  little  dim,  low  and  ruf 
fled,  with  a  tiny  beaver  hat  sporting  a  tossed 
pink  feather  caught  with  a  bow  of  mauve. 
A  wrap  of  plum  colour  has  fallen  from  her 
shoulders.  Greuze,  in  one  of  his  most  deli 
cious  and  unsentimental  moments,  has  painted 
her.  Look  at  the  picture,  it  is  hanging  there 
over  the  mantel.  There  is  an  air  about  her  of 
a  melancholy  that  is  piquant,  a  piquancy  that 
is  for  the  moment  too  sad.  It  is  thus  as  Greuze 


26  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

has  seen  her  with  immortal  grace  that  she  in 
her  mortality  should  grace  the  doorway.'} 

MLLE.  HEINEL  AND  GUIMARD 
[Rushing  over  to  her.] 
Sophie!     Sophie! 

THE  ABBE 
Good  morning,  my  daughter. 

SOPHIE 

[Sinking  into  a  chair.] 

I'm  at  death's  door,  but  still  I  remember  it  is 
evening. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Tell  us  all— all. 

SOPHIE 

What  is  there  to  tell?  Seven  times  I  implored 
admission  to  Minister  Choiseul.  Always  some  stu 
pidity  prevented  my  admittance.  A  delegation 
from  the  Farmers  of  Auvergne.  Are  there  any 
farmers  in  Auvergne,  Father?  Though  I  am  de 
spondent  I  do  not  like  to  be  inexact  about  any  part 
of  France,  perhaps  they  were  from  Provence. 
Then  Choiseul  was  occupied  with  a  tedious  inter 
view  with  the  more  tedious  minister  from  England. 
Statesmen  take  days  to  leave  undecided  what  a 
woman  could  settle  in  a  second.  [And  her  fingers 
snap  in  quick  dismissal.]  Then  a  summons  to  the 
King  for  Choiseul,  a  conspiracy  of  stupidities  to 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 27 

keep  me  waiting.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  my 
heart  from  breaking  right  there  in  the  Courts  of  the 
Hall  of  Justice  but  I  said  to  myself:  Sophie,  you 
are  Sophie,  remember  you  are  an  artist.  It  will 
never  do  for  the  supreme  prima  donna  of  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Music  to  die  in  the  Courts  of  the  Hall 
of  Justice  just  as  anybody  might  die  in  the  Courts 
of  the  Hall  of  Justice. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[  Commiseratingly.  ] 
Sophie,  poor  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

I  drove  back  here.  At  first  I  could  not  enter. 
I  knew  his  gentle,  accusing  eyes  would  try  to  smile 
at  me.  [Tearfully  she  gazes  at  the  portrait  of  DE 
LAURAGUAIS.]  Surely,  that  is  the  masterpiece  of 
La  Tour.  Yes,  I  must  try  and  control  myself.  All 
ministers  are  liars.  Your  pardon,  Father,  I  mean 
ministers  of  State.  Why  did  Choiseul  listen  to 
me  at  all?  Last  night  after  my  triumph  I  went 
down  on  my  knees  to  him.  His  eyes  were  still  dim 
from  the  divine  pathos  of  my  singing.  I  beseeched 
him  to  intercede  for  my  adored  one.  I  implored 
him  to  set  him  free.  He  promised  help  tomorrow. 
This  is  tomorrow,  this  is  tomorrow,  this  is  tomorrow. 
[And  the  hope  lies  buried  in  a  grave  of 
sobs.] 


28  SOPHIE  [AcT  I 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Sophie,  dear,  for  the  sake  of  art  control  yourself. 

SOPHIE 

This  is  the  cruel  day.  Choiseul  has  forgotten, 
tonight  he  leaves  for  Vienna  and  at  this  moment 
my  poor  Dorval  lies  swooning  in  the  Prison  of 
Fort  Eveque.  It  isn't  nice  in  Fort  Eveque.  I  have 
been  there, — a  night  and  a  day  because  I  told  a 
lieutenant  of  the  police  that  his  nose  was  so 
long  that  he  couldn't  see  beyond  it  to  his  wife's 
disloyalty.  Never  be  honest  in  a  dishonest  world. 
And  now  my  Dorval  is  there  with  only  one  little 
window  to  his  cell  through  which  to  hear  the  swal 
lows  sing.  [Then  to  THE  ABBE.]  Do  swallows 
sing?  Ah  well,  never  mind.  Poor  Dorval,  think 
of  it,  Father. 

THE  ABBE 
[Quietly.] 

Yes,  my  child,  I  am  thinking  of  many  things. 

SOPHIE 

There  is  no  place  for  genius  in  the  world  except 
in  prison  or  out  of  France.  He  has  defied  the 
Academy  of  Medicine.  He  has  sent  broadcast  the 
truth  of  his  discovery.  He  would  save  suffering 
humanity  by  this  exquisite  new  method  of  his. 
What  is  it  called?  Ah  yes,  this  system  of  inocula 
tion — it  is  marvellous. 

[She  is  weeping.] 


ACT  I] SOPHIE. 29 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[And  she  is  weeping,  too.] 
Yes,  miraculous,  very  miraculous. 

SOPHIE 

[After  all,  it  must  be.] 

I  do  not  understand  it  but  I  know  it  is  and  for 
this  he  is  in  a  dungeon  now. 

THE  ABBE 

But  there  are  rumours  at  Court  that  this  time  it  is 
for  some  insult  to  the  King. 

SOPHIE 

Nonsense,  it  must  have  been  a  misunderstood 
courtesy.  And  besides  Dorval  is  a  genius.  What 
has  courtesy  to  do  with  genius? 

GUIMARD 

Be  calm,  Sophie,  remember  you  must  rehearse 
tonight. 

SOPHIE 

Rehearse  tonight!  That  is  the  life  of  us  artists. 
We  are  slaves  to  beauty,  though  our  hearts  are 
bursting  we  must  sing.  How  can  I  ever  reach  my 
top  notes  when  I  know  that  my  Dorval  is  in  Fort 
Eveque?  And  we  parted  in  anger.  [She  is  in 
front  of  his  picture  now.]  My  love,  can  you  ever 
forgive  me  that?  Can  you  ever  pardon  your  rash, 
your  wayward  Sophie  for  not  knowing  that  your 


30  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

whims  were  but  misread  blessings?  Dorval!  Dor- 
val!  My  adored  one!  Marie,  from  where  you 
stand  is  the  bow  on  the  picture  straight?  Father, 
quick,  that  chair. 

[The  chair  is  brought.     The  ladies  assist. 

THE  ABBE  is  holding  SOPHIE  as  she  arranges 

the  bow  of  crepe.] 

GUIMARD 

Be  careful,  do  not  fall,  remember  you  rehearse 
tonight. 

SOPHIE 

Marie,  you're  growing  thin  from  worry  about  my 
rehearsal.  Now  that  I  look  down  on  you  I  can  see 
nothing  but  a  hairy  flag  of  despair  flying  at  the  end 
of  a  pole. 

THE  ABBE 

Madame,  hasten  down,  the  chair  is  perhaps  not 
very  strong. 

SOPHIE 

Would  you  deprive  me  of  even  these  few  mo 
ments  with  him?  [Her  face  is  close  to  the  face 
of  the  portrait.]  Ah,  my  adored  one,  will  I  ever 
see  you  again  in  this  life? 

[The  door  opens  and  THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
enters.] 

SOPHIE 
Well,  what  is  it? 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 31 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[Bowing.] 

Madame,  a  document  has  just  come  from  the  Min 
ister  of  State. 

SOPHIE 

[From  the  chair.] 

Dorval  is  dead,  he's  dead,  I  know  he's  dead! 
Give  me  that  terrible  paper! 

[The  document  is  handed  to  SOPHIE.  The 
LACKEY  makes  his  exit.  With  a  trembling 
hand  SOPHIE  opens  the  letter.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Aside  to  GUIMARD.] 

That  is  the  way  she's  going  to  look  before  she 
sings  the  first  act  aria  in  Iphigenia  tomorrow  night. 

THE  ABBE 
My  child,  come  down. 

SOPHIE 

Leave  me  to  my  woe.     Leave  me  alone  on  the 
heights  with  my  suffering. 

[She  has  opened  the  paper.  They  are 
watching  her  in  apprehension.  Suddenly 
with  a  cry  of  joy  she  jumps  to  the  floor.] 

SOPHIE 

Choiseul  has  listened.     Dorval  is  free!     He  is 
on   his   way   to   me,    his    Sophie.     Listen.      [She 


32 SOPHIE [Acx  I 

reads.]  "Madame,  your  divine  art  has  moved  me. 
I  realize  that  to  make  you  suffer  is  an  insult  to  the 
gods  of  song.  De  Lauraguais  for  the  sixth  time  is 
free.  Urge  him  to  control  his  whims.  Urge  him, 
Madame,  to  set  a  curb  on  yours." 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Outrageous!     Outrageous! 

SOPHIE 
[Continuing.] 

"For  need  I  more  than  hint,  Madame,  that 
neither  the  Count  nor  his  admirable  protectress, 
Mme.  Arnould,  are  in  too  high  favour  with  the 
Count  Saint-Florentin,  Minister  of  Police." 
[SOPHIE  looks  up.]  What  a  mean  little  serpent  in 
this  otherwise  paradisial  document. 

GUIMARD 

Go  on. 

SOPHIE 

There  is  nothing  else  save  three  quarters  of  a 
page  of  space  and  then  the  name  Choiseul.  [Then 
angrily.]  I  will  save  this  letter  seal  and  all  some 
day  to  fling  into  the  face  of  this  Minister.  But 
now,  now — Marie,  Abigalette,  rush  into  the  garden, 
pluck  all  the  roses  you  can  find.  I  am  done  with 
sadness. 

[She  tears  down  the  crepe  from  the  picture. 
GUIMARD  and  MLLE.  HEINEL  run  out.     She 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 33 

snatches  the  lugubrious  looking  flowers  from 
the  harpsichord  and  flings  them  through  the 
window.] 

SOPHIE 

Why  aren't  you  dancing,  Father?  Go  down  on 
your  knees  and  dance.  Sing  a  hymn  of  praise. 
No,  you  are  right.  There  is  never  room  in  one 
room  for  the  joy  of  two  people  unless  they  are — 
ah  well,  never  mind.  Be  merciful,  Father,  for  to 
morrow  I  shall  have  an  abundance  to  confess. 
Dorval,  my  genius,  my  adored  one. 

THE  ABBE 

Madame,  remember  you  must  sing  tonight.  You 
will  be  weary. 

SOPHIE 

I  am  a  prima  donna.  I  sing  with  a  bit  of  my 
heart  and  a  bit  of  my  mind.  The  rest  of  my  life  I 
save  for  my  life.  And  besides,  Papa  Gluck  never 
stays  too  late.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  have  a  tem 
perament?  Tonight  I  will  sing  divinely  because  I 
know  that  each  aria  will  bring  me  nearer  to  the 
blissful  hours  that  I  will  spend  alone  with  Dorval. 
What  is  more  blessed  than  the  love  of  a  man? 

THE  ABBE 

The  deeper  love  for  all  men.  The  love  that  lifts 
itself  to  service  and  sacrifice,  the  forgetting  of 
oneself. 


34  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

No,  no,  that  is  putting  wings  to  facts.  Altruism 
is  but  egoism  gone  into  society. 

THE  ABBE 

Society,  Sophie.  You  have  made  a  fetish  of  all 
this  superficial  gaiety.  The  things  of  this  world  are 
but  things  of  the  moment. 

SOPHIE 

You  are  right  but  what  is  life  but  a  series  of 
moments?  Little  moments  which,  if  we  are  wise, 
we  will  crown  with  an  ecstasy  that  seems  eternal. 
You  see  Sophie  can  be  serious.  [Yes,  and  she  is.] 
You  do  not  know  how  very  serious  Sophie  can  be, 
sad,  spiritual,  even  religious.  Do  you  know  that 
my  debut  as  a  singer  was  in  church?  There,  as  a 
little  girl  of  six  I  sang  the  Miserere  so  sincerely, 
so  divinely, — I  was  barely  six  but  already  I  had 
learnt  the  agony  of  life — that  for  several  Sabbaths 
at  least  the  house  of  prayer  was  more  popular  than 
the  Royal  Academy  of  Music.  [She  calls  from  the 
window.]  My  friends,  hasten  with  the  roses  lest 
Dorval  come  back  before  the  room  is  gay  and  be 
fore  this  melancholy  prelate  convince  me  [she  has 
turned  to  THE  ABBE]  that  life  is  nothing  but  a 
thorny  path  through  a  forest  of  thorns.  There, 
we've  been  talking  about  heaven  and  you  haven't 
had  your  wine.  [She  pulls  the  bell  rope.] 


ACT  I]  SOPHIE  35 

Father,  don't  you  think  we  have  a  little  right  to  a 
heaven  here  on  earth  before  we  gamble  for  a  gam 
bler's  paradise  hereafter? 

THE  ABBE 

There  is  no  paradise  on  earth  save  a  duty  that  is 
done. 

[The  THIRD  LACKEY  enters.] 

SOPHIE 

The  Abbe's  wine  in  the  library.  [The  LACKEY 
exits.]  .Duty!  What  is  duty  but  a  holy  name  that 
people  give  to  the  things  they  do  not  want  to  do? 
When  I  sing  I  do  my  duty.  When  I  am  happy  I  do 
my  duty  for  then  I  am  thanking  God  with  happi 
ness, — for  the  happiness  of  life.  [And  now  she  is 
smiling.]  I  wonder  if  you  took  your  cassock  off 
whether  you  would  be  so  good? 

THE  ABBE 
[Shocked.] 
My  daughter! 

SOPHIE 

My  Father,  is  it  my  fault  that  you  are  so  literal? 
[The  girls  return  with  their  arms  full  of 
flowers.  ] 

SOPHIE 
That's  it,  my  darlings.     Now  the  room  will  look 


36 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

like   a   temple    of   love.     Scatter   them   about   as 
though  for  a  bacchanal. 

[She  throws  some  roses  at  THE  ABBE.] 

THE  ABBE 
[Getting  up.] 
I  think  I  will  wait  in  the  library. 

SOPHIE 

No,  stay  here.  You  are  as  safe  as  a  pilgrim  be 
fore  the  shrine  of  Venus  provided  he  is  blind  and 
over  ninety.  [Then  to  the  girls.]  Put  some  be 
hind  my  Dorval's  picture,  Abigalette.  How  charm 
ing  you  girls  are!  I  adore  having  you  about! 

THE  ABBE 

Then  why  do  they  say  you  hate  to  have  women 
with  you? 

SOPHIE 

They  mean  singers,  singers,  Father.  I  do  not 
object  to  these  ballet  girls.  What  difference  does 
it  make  to  me  that  they  can  twirl  their  toes  higher 
than  I  can  sing? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Laughing.] 
Sophie,  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 
[Gaily.] 
Life  is  a  holiday  of  love.     The  first  words  I 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 37 

ever  sang  in  my  life  were  "love,  charming  love." 
Love,  sweet  after  agony,  blessed  after  pain.  Dor- 
val,  Dorval! 

[THE  FIRST  LACKEY  appears  in  the  door 
way.] 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  now  that  you  are  at  home  are  you  at 
home? 

SOPHIE 

Is  it  he,  the  Count  de  Lauraguais?  [Then  hope 
fully.]  Not  yet?  not  yet? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[With  a  sly  look.] 
The  carriage  of  Mme.  Levasseur  is  at  the  door. 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  lips  knot.] 

So!     She  knows  I  have  been  unhappy  and  has 
come  to  pity  me.      [She  clenches  her  tiny  pink  fist 
as  though  for  a  battle.]      Show  her  in. 
[THE  FIRST  LACKEY  exits.] 

SOPHIE 

Anything  to  wing  the  time  before  he  comes. 
[Then  to  MLLE.  HEINEL  and  GUIMARD.]  Do  not 
be  offended,  dears,  you  are  my  friends.  I  do  not 
have  to  be  nice  to  you.  But  to  Rosalie,  ah,  that  is 
different,  she  hasn't  yet  forgiven  me  for  taking  her 


38  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

Ambassador.  [The  voice  of  the  LACKEY  is  heard.] 
Crouch  down,  my  children,  for  the  eternal  hills  are 
upon  us. 

[ROSALIE,  an  enormous,  blond  and  dullish 
woman  is  announced  by  the  LACKEY.] 

SOPHIE 
Rosalie,  how  sweet  of  you. 

ROSALIE 

Sophie,  you  are  in  trouble — tongues  are  wag 
ging.  Madame  that  says  this  and  Madame  this 
says  that. 

SOPHIE 
Rosalie,  you  haven't  listened? 

ROSALIE 
Why  not? 

SOPHIE 

Why  not?  Ah  yes,  you  are  justified.  It  is  the 
easiest  way  for  some  to  learn. 

ROSALIE 

[Nodding  to  the  others.] 

So  your  sweet  little  friends  are  here  and  your 
good,  good  Abbe.  Good  evening,  ladies.  Father, 
tongues  are  wagging.  They  say  that  Sophie's  little 
boudoir  is  more  sunny  for  you  than  the  cloisters  of 
the  cathedral.  You  are  deserting  your  sinners. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 39 

SOPHIE 

Rosalie  dear,  he  is  sharpening  his  piety  and  pity 
at  the  very  fountain  head  of  sin.  Aren't  you 
ashamed  to  be  seen  entering  my  house? 

ROSALIE 

I  have  come  because  I  heard  you  were  sad.  I 
wish  to  help  those  who  are  sad. 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  dear,  always  when  the  victim  is  a  woman 
whom  you  love. 

ROSALIE 

[Very  seriously.] 

Sophie,  I  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  earth  to  you 
if  I  heard  that  you  were  suffering. 

SOPHIE 

[Patting  her  hand,  a  quaint  expression  in 
her  eyes.] 
Yes,  dear,  I  know,  I  know. 

ROSALIE 

Can  I  be  of  help?  See,  I  forget  that  you  are 
not  always  nice  to  me  with  your  tongue.  I  have  a 
big  heart. 

SOPHIE 

[So  kindly,  so  sweetly.] 

Of  course,  dear,  look  at  the  size  of  the  rest  of 
you. 


40 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

ROSALIE 

Soon  I  am  to  sing  for  the  Dauphiness.  I  have 
influence.  Do  you  need  some  money,  say  ten  thou 
sand  francs? 

SOPHIE 

Darling,  you  are  insulting  your  memory.  Our 
Ambassador,  Mercy  d'Argenteau,  can  be  very  lively 
when  it  comes  to  tossing  francs,  and  you,  dear, 
never  had  the  reputation  of  being  economical,  that 
is,  when  it  came  to  some  one  else's  money.  Look 
about  you,  dearest,  does  it  seem  that  your  Sophie 
has  been  hungering  for  discarded  crusts? 

ROSALIE 
Darling,  I  have  not  been  lonely. 

SOPHIE 

How  could  you  be  when  you  take  up  so  much 
room  in  the  world.  They  tell  me  that  you  have 
turned  ever  so  intimately  to  the  companionship  of 
music. 

ROSALIE 
[Largely.] 
It  is  all  to  us  singers.     It  is  my  life,  my  soul. 

SOPHIE 

How  does  your  life  look  without  his  wig?  You 
will  come  with  your  soul,  that  is  with  Papa  Gluck, 
to  hear  me  sing  tonight? 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 41 

ROSALIE 
If  my  Sophie  doesn't  mind. 

SOPHIE 

Mind?  Put  yourself  for  a  moment  in  my  boots. 
[Her  tiny  foot  is  suddenly  stuck  out.]  No,  I  can 
not  ask  you  to  perform  miracles.  Why  should  I 
mind,  my  friend?  You  threw  yourself  at  Papa 
Gluck  before  it  was  decided  who  should  sing 
Iphigenia.  You  threw  yourself  at  his  head  and 
you  landed  in  his  bed,  but  nevertheless,  my  friend, 
it  is  Sophie  Arnould  who  creates  the  role  tomorrow 
night. 

ROSALIE 

Sophie,  aren't  you  ashamed  to  repeat  all  this 
gossip  in  front  of  these  two  children? 

SOPHIE 

These  two  children  are  members  of  the  ballet. 
Besides,  what  matter,  all  Paris  knows.  I'll  wager 
you  that  the  women  in  the  market  place  sing  their 
babies  to  sleep  to  the  tune  of  the  ballad  of  Rosalie. 
You  say  you  came  to  do  me  a  service.  Now  I  shall 
do  you  one.  I  shall  give  you  some  advice.  Noth 
ing  is  so  free  to  give,  or  so  expensive  to  take.  This 
is  my  advice :  thin  your  body  and  fatten  your  wit. 

ROSALIE 
[Literal  to  the  end.] 


42  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

No,  no,  we  singers  need  deep  chests. 
[She  points  to  her  own.] 

SOPHIE 

[Disregarding  the  physical  geography.] 
For  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  things,  my  enormous 
sister  in  the  art  of  song,  there  is  very  little  room 
to  move  about  in.  But  do  not  go  too  far.  Do  not 
waste  away  to  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  like  my 
poor  little  Guimard  here.  That  is  too  much. 
[Then  to  GUIMARD.]  Marie,  you  are  rapidly  be 
coming  the  skeleton  of  the  Muses.  Why  the  other 
evening  when  you  were  dancing  with  those  two 
gentlemen  of  the  ballet  it  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  two  dogs  fighting  for  a  bone.  There,  what  a 
nice  time  I'm  having  and  I  haven't  asked  you  to 
sit  down.  [And  how  happy  she  is.] 

ROSALIE 
Then  I  can  be  of  no  help? 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  yes,  you  can.  You  can  give  me  the  satisfac 
tion  of  telling  you  that  the  agony  I  was  suffering  is 
appeased  and  whilst  it  might  have  been  a  pleasure 
to  you  to  have  seen  your  Sophie  the  most  miserable 
woman  in  Paris  that  now  you  may  have  the  brighter 
joy  of  beholding  me  the  happiest  lady  in  France. 
You  see  I  have  really  read  your  kindness.  If  you 
came  here  to  pity  me  I  hope  your  trouble  has  been 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 43 

repaid.  If  you  were  curious  about  what  was  hap 
pening  to  Madame  Arnould  be  assured  that  Paris 
need  no  longer  be  curious  about  what  is  happen 
ing  to  you.  If  it  is  not  already  common  gossip,  I 
will  tell  the  tale  with  a  flourish  and  embellishment 
which  I  am  sure  will  rebound  most  genuinely, 
Rosalie  dear  [and  her  smile's  angelic],  most  justly 
to  your  credit. 

ROSALIE 

Sophie,  Sophie,  how  you  misjudge  me.  Shall 
we  not  call  quits?  As  for  me  I  will  not  speak  any 
more  of  you  and  you  in  your  turn  must  say  nothing 
either  good  or  bad  of  me. 

SOPHIE 

Rosalie,  my  dear,  half  of  that  promise  I  will 
keep.  [Then  to  THE  ABBE.]  Can  you  despair  of 
humanity  when  you  see  such  an  exhibition  of  sis 
terly  love? 

THE  ABBE 

Ladies,  ladies,  is  there  no  room  in  your  heart 
for  charity? 

SOPHIE 

You  dear,  simple  soul  you.  How  could  there  be 
when  we  have  each  other's  reputation  to  think  of? 

[THE  FIRST  LACKEY  enters  and  speaks  low 
to  SOPHIE.] 


44  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

[Involuntarily.  ] 
He  has  come ! 

ROSALIE 
Who? 

• 

SOPHIE 

[Quickly  on  her  guard.] 

My  larynx,  my  larynx.  The  doctor  has  come  to 
spray  my  throat.  [She  sings  a  phrase.]  La  la — 
la-la.  How  can  I  do  justice  to  Gluck  tonight  after 
all  this  chatter?  [She  begins  a  scale.]  Do-re- 
me-fa-sol — 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[In  a  rapture.] 
How  beautiful. 

ROSALIE 

She  sings  that  with  her  head,  I  can  go  as  high  as 
that  with  my  chest.  [She  sings  a  few  notes.] 
La-la-la. 

[The  two  women  glare  at  each  other  like 
two  unfriendly  kittens  that  are  not  on  singing 
terms.] 

THE  ABBE 
God's  children  should  love  each  other. 

SOPHIE 
Not  even  God  could  expect  that  when  they're 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 45 

singers.     Now  you  must  all  go,  all  of  you.     My 
larynx,  my  larynx. 

ROSALIE 

[Sounding  a  note.] 

Let  me  finish  this  phrase.  You  will  hear  some 
thing. 

SOPHIE 

[Insinuatingly,  militantly.] 

So  will  you  if  you  do.  My  physician  is  waiting. 
[Then  to  THE  FIRST  LACKEY.]  In  a  minute. 
Have  him  wait.  Ladies,  if  I  seem  expeditious  it 
is  the  fault  of  my  larynx. 

THE  ABBE 
[Aside  to  SOPHIE.] 
That  is  a  queer  name  for  the  heart. 

SOPHIE 

[Shaking  her  finger  at  him  and  with  ever 
so    deep   a    meaning.]      There    are    queer 
names  for  many  things.      [Then  to  the  ladies.] 
Good  evening,  friends,  my  dear,  dear,  friends. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Sophie,  until  tonight. 

GUIMARD 
You  must  rest  before  rehearsal. 


46 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  dear.  [Then  with  purling  sweetness,  hold 
ing  out  her  hand.]  Rosalie — until  rehearsal! 

ROSALIE 

I'm  not  angry,  Sophie.  I  never  mind  what  you 
say. 

SOPHIE 

Don't,  dear,  the  only  way  to  get  the  better  of  the 
truth  is  not  to  mind  it.  [She  bursts  into  song.] 
La-la  la  la-la-la. 

[MLLE.  HEINEL  and  GUIMARD  kiss  SOPHIE. 
Then  ROSALIE  and  the  girls  are  gone.] 

SOPHIE 

[Excitedly  to  THE  ABBE.] 
He  has  come,  De  Lauraguais  has  come. 

THE  ABBE 
I  knew  it  was  something  beside  the  larynx. 

SOPHIE 
Why,  whatever  do  you  mean? 

THE  ABBE 

[Very,  very  seriously.] 

With  your  permission,  Madame,  I  will  wait  in 
the  library. 

SOPHIE 

And  for  goodness'  sake  don't  come  in  without 
knocking  at  the  door. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 47 

THE  ABBE 
My  daughter. 

SOPHIE 

An  Abbe  need  never  do  that.  If  he  is  curious 
there  is  always  the  confessional.  But  you  wicked 
old  man  you,  I  meant  do  not  come  in  without  knock 
ing  during  the  rehearsal.  [She  has  taken  his  hand 
and  speaks  very  genuinely.]  Dear,  dear  Father, 
it  is  such  a  comfort  having  you  in  the  house.  One 
never  knows  when  one  may  need  God. 

[THE  ABBE  with  his  hands  behind  his  back 
goes  into  the  library  and  SOPHIE  rushes  over 
to  the  main  door  centre  and  flings  it  open.] 

SOPHIE 

[In  an  ecstasy.] 
Dorval!     Dorval! 

[And  DE  LAURAGUAIS  enters.  He  is  charm 
ing  to  women  but  to  men  he  might  seem  "un- 
understandable."  His  whimsies  are  the 
women's  adoration, — his  "differences"  the  key 
to  their  hearts.  He  is  childlike  and  petulant, 
passionate  and  mad,  but  withal  he  is  so  hand 
some,  handsome  in  that  furtive,  unconscious 
way,  and  as  to  his  esprit,  listen  for  a  minute  to 
Voltaire:  "He  has  all  possible  talents  and  all 
possible  eccentricities" — and  a  friend,  writing 
to  the  sage  of  Verney  describes  him  as  "the 


48  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

most  serious  fool  in  the  kingdom."  Can  you 
blame  SOPHIE  for  her  adoration?  Blame,  if 
you  will,  I  cannot.] 

SOPHIE 

[Rushing  over  to  him.] 
Dorval,  Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Darling,  do  not  crush  the  parrot.  [He  takes  out 
a  bedraggled  bird  from  under  his  coat.]  It  was  all 
I  could  do  to  keep  him  quiet  in  the  coach.  He 
kept  on  calling  out:  "Sophie,  dearest  Sophie." 
He  had  been  listening  to  me  in  my  cell. 

SOPHIE 

[Brushing  away  the  thought.] 
Don't,  Dorval,  don't,  the  memory  of  you  in  prison 
is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Why,  I  had  a  rather  nice  time. 

SOPHIE 
What? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

So  many  hours  for  thought.  When  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  you,  dear,  I  was  busy,  part  of  the  time 
on  my  new  tragedy  and  the  rest  in  finishing  my 
essay  about  the  wild  men  of  America.  I  do  not 
know  anything  at  all  about  these  wild  men  but 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 49 

where  one  has  no  facts  to  work  on  there  is  so  much 
more  room  for  the  imagination.  [He  looks  about 
him.]  And  you,  Sophie,  you  do  not  seem  to  have 
pined  away. 

SOPHIE 
Dorval,  dear,  you  haven't  yet  kissed  your  Sophie. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Haven't  I,  Sophie?     Well— well— 

[Her  arms  are  held  out  to  him.     He  is 
about  to  embrace  her.] 

SOPHIE 
Darling,  darling! 

[She  is  nearer  to  him.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
There — I'd  almost  forgotten  Minnette. 

SOPHIE 
Who  is  she? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Next  to  Polly,  the  wisest  of  living  beings  because 
she  is  silent.  [He  takes  from  under  his  coat  a  tiny 
marmoset.]  My  wife,  after  a  letter  of  implora- 
tion,  sent  me  Minnette  to  prison  from  my  little 
menagerie  at  home.  She  is  a  perfect  specimen, 
Sophie,  Minnette,  not  my  wife.  [He  holds  up  the 
tiny  monkey.]  Look,  her  little  chest  is  all  marked 
with  sapphire  stars.  How  charming  she  looks, 


50  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

though  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  sitting  on  her  in 
the  coach. 

SOPHIE 
Dorval,  I  haven't  had  my  kiss. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Sophie!  [She  comes  eagerly  towards  him. 
He  is  about  to  embrace  her,  then  he  stops.]  Let  me 
see,  there  is  something  else,  isn't  there?  Have  you 
a  Homer  in  Greek  in  the  house?  I  need  a  quota 
tion  for  my  essay. 

SOPHIE 

[Petulant  now.] 
Dorval,  I  haven't  had  my  kiss. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Ah  well,  never  mind  the  Greek.  My  darling, 
how  I  have  missed  you.  Sophie!  Sophie! 

[And  at  last  they  are  in  each  other's  arms.] 

SOPHIE 
Have  you  forgiven  me,  Dorval? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Have  you  forgiven  me,  Sophie? 

SOPHIE 
Why  did  we  quarrel? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
I  have  forgotten.     Let  us  not  try  to  remember. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 51 

SOPHIE 

Was  it  because  you  said  there  was  something  I 
couldn't  sing? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Now  you  are  trying  to  remember  so  you  can  feel 
how  sweet  it  is  that  you've  forgotten. 

SOPHIE 
My  dear,  quaint  Dorval. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Paris  is  changed.     I  have  been  gone  a  month. 

SOPHIE 

[Sitting  down.] 
I  have  been  so  lonely. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

And  is  Sophie  still  queen  of  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Music? 

SOPHIE 

Still,  Dorval?     I  have  twenty  years  ahead  of  me 
to  decide  who  is  the  next  divinity. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Looking  about.] 
Ah,  it  is  so  nice  to  be  home. 

SOPHIE 
Home? 


52  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

I  didn't  like  sleeping  on  the  little  cot  at  Fort 
Eveque  though  there  was  one  advantage,  Sophie,  1 
did  have  a  fine  view  of  the  stars.  If  I  were  a  god  I 
should  hop  from  star  to  star  just  to  surprise  the 
planets.  On  Venus  I  should  only  speak  the  lan 
guage  of  Mars  and  on  Jupiter  that  of  the  earth. 
Don't  you  think  your  Dorval  would  cause  an  awful 
stir  among  the  planets? 

SOPHIE 
Look,  Minnette  is  eating  the  carpet. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

The  hungry  little  darling.  [He  lifts  the  monkey 
up.]  There,  I  think  she'll  be  much  happier  on  the 
harpsichord. 

SOPHIE 

What  are  you  doing?  She  will  scratch  the 
panels.  Those  lovely  landscapes  are  by  Boucher. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Comforting  her.] 

It's  all  right,  Sophie,  Minnette  loves  landscapes. 
She  was  born  in  one.  By  the  way,  what  have  you 
done  with  the  telescope. 

SOPHIE 
[Tenderly.] 

I  had  it  brought  with  me  and  put  on  the  roof 
here.  For  the  memory  of  the  dear  old  times. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 53 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Ah,  how  good  it  is  to  be  home.  When  did  you 
come  here,  Sophie?  I  told  the  driver  to  go  straight 
to  the  Rue  des  Petits  Champs  and  when  I  got  to  the 
old  house  you  were  gone.  Only  an  inhospitable 
sign  on  the  door.  But  it  doesn't  matter.  I  have 
found  you  and  it  is  charming  here.  Where  is  our 
bedroom,  darling?  I  think  I  shall  go  to  bed  and 
sleep  for  a  week.  But  please  wake  me  at  twelve 
tonight. 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  voice  is  warm.] 
At  twelve  tonight. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Yes,  so  I  can  go  up  on  the  roof  to  the  telescope. 
You  know  at  any  moment  there  may  be  a  new  star 
in  the  sky.  [His  arm  is  about  her.]  It  is  so  sweet 
to  be  home. 

SOPHIE  .; 

.  t  .ii 

[A  little  gu^ufapplfc]  i 


LAURAGUAIS  , 
[Not  understanding  her  tone.]  , 
Of  course ;  wherever  Sophie  is,  is  home* 

SOPHIE 
But— 


54 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Reassuringly.  ] 

Oh,  I  shan't  mind  a  bit  if  you  have  to  be  singing 
your  scales  as  you  used  to.  I'm  sorry  I  ever 
minded,  Sophie,  indeed  I  am.  Very  often  when  I 
lay  in  my  cell  in  jail  I  kept  saying  to  myself  how 
much  sweeter  it  was  to  hear  my  Sophie  singing  than 
the  prisoners'  sawing  wood.  And  you  won't  mind, 
will  you,  darling,  if  I  go  round  without  anything 
on? 

SOPHIE 

What? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Later  on  you  must,  too.  I  have  decided  to  re 
turn  to  the  primitive  life.  I  shall  put  myself  in 
the  mood  and  condition  of  Adam  and  then  begin 
reforming  the  world.  And  you  will  help  me, 
Sophie,  dear?  Everything  is  to  be  different,  but 
don't  be  alarmed;  we  shall  go  about  it  naturally. 
Kiss  me,  dear.  There  are  so  many  ancient  cus 
toms  that  can't  be  improved  upon.  Wait  and  see, 
darling,  our  home  here  will  be  the  Mecca  of  all 
thinkers  of  the  new  school.  What's  the  matter, 
dear?  But  don't  stop  pouting.  There  now,  I  shall 
kiss  away  all  that's  bothering  you.  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

[Not  knowing  how  to  begin.] 
Dorval — 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 55 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Encouragingly.  ] 

Darling,  I  assure  you  our  new  mode  of  life  isn't 
going  to  interfere  at  all  with  your  career. 

SOPHIE 
No? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[As  a  final  concession.] 

I  don't  in  the  least  mind  your  wearing  clothes 
when  you  go  to  rehearsal. 

SOPHIE 

[Knowing  that  sooner  or  later  he  must  be 
told.] 
Dorval,  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Smilingly  expectant.] 

Of  course  you  have.     No  woman  ever  lived  who 
didn't  have  something  to  tell. 

SOPHIE 

My  house  is  no  longer  in  the  Rue  des  Petites 
Champs.     My  home  is  here. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[With  a  denying  shake  of  the  head] 
That    is    too    literal,    metaphysically    speaking, 
one's  home  is  the  world,  one's  home  is  the  journey 
twixt  life  and  death,  and  the  wise  are  those  who 


56  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

pick  the  most  beautiful  flowers  of  opportunity  along 
the  way.     Kiss  me,  dear. 

SOPHIE 
[Kissing  him."] 
I  know  all  about  that. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Of  course,  my  little  Sophie  does.  Is  there  any 
thing  in  the  world  my  Sophie  doesn't  know?  And 
if  there  is,  her  Dorval  knows  it.  But  my  Sophie  is 
a  prima  donna  and  what  does  a  prima  donna  know 
of  the  realm  of  the  spirit?  It  will  take  you  a  while 
perhaps  to  understand  our  new  mode  of  life. 

SOPHIE 
[Hesitatingly.] 
But  there  are  so  many  things — 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Again  profoundly  agreeing.] 
Things,  things,  the  ever  abiding  curse  of  the  ma 
terial,  but  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  this  house  is 
empty.     I  won't  let  anything  stand  in  the  way  of 
tifuth.     You  are  its  only  reality.     Saint  Francis 
knew.     He  knew  that  he  who  has  nothing,  has  all. 
You  are  the  only  nothing  that  I  want,  you  and* 
sjlence. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  f   There  is  a  long, 
delicious  embt$ce.~[ 


ACT  I]  SOPHIE  57 

SOPHIE 
[Timidly.] 
Dorval. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[As  he  kisses  her.] 
Yes,  yes,  it  £5  sweeter  here  than  in  jail. 

SOPHIE 
Darling. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Now  we  are  alone  upon  a  mountain  top. 

SOPHIE 
I  wish  we  were. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

We  are.  Sing,  Sophie,  we  are  so  near  heaven 
that  I  think  the  angels  will  bend  down  to  hear  and 
take  lessons  from  your  throat.  What  a  sweet, 
throbbing  throat.  It's  as  white  as  my  kitten's  and 
your  eyes  are  like  two  planets.  See,  I  can  look 
down  upon  the  whole  smiling  landscape  of  your 
face.  Sing  like  a  host  of  nightingales. 

SOPHIE 

That's  very  elaborate,  Dorval  dear,  but  I  must 
save  my  voice,  for  tonight  I  rehearse. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

The  divine  Arnould  to  lift  her  voice  in  an  empty 
theatre? 


58  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

No,  dear,  I  have  progressed.  The  first  condition 
I  made  to  Gluck  before  I  consented  to  save  his 
opera  for  him  was  that  we  should  rehearse  where  I 
wished. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Is  his  music  beautiful? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  but  it  needs  the  singing,  and  what  Gluck  has 
left  out  your  Sophie  will  put  in. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Before  I  left  Levasseur  was  to  create  Iphigenia. 

SOPHIE 

[Looking  up  at  him.] 
And  now  it  is  your  Sophie. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Yes,  I  knew  you  would  manage  it  somehow. 

SOPHIE 
I  have,  Dorval. 

[She  turns  away  and  tears  are  beginning 
on  her  lashes.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

How  sweet  of  Sophie  to  feel  so  sadly  about 
Levasseur. 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 59 

SOPHIE 
I  think  it  has  cost  me  too  much. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What,  dear? 

SOPHIE 

It  means  that  you  must  be  careful,  Dorval,  very 
careful. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

I,  Sophie?  What  have  I  to  do  with  this?  The 
intrigues  of  the  opera  have  never  touched  me. 
[And  then  as  a  finality  for  all  time.]  When  two 
singers  are  at  the  game  the  only  safe  place  for  sen 
sitivity  is  death  or  a  dungeon.  Why  should  I  be 
careful? 

SOPHIE 
Dearest,  you  cannot  start  your  nude  Utopia  here. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Why  not?     Is  this  not  virgin  soil? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  dear,  so  to  speak  but  only  so  to  speak. 
[She  turns  further  away.]  Dorval —  [She 
stops.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

I  hope  all  this  indecision  has  not  got  into  your 
art. 


60 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

No,  in  singing  my  attack  is  still  perfect,  though 
'the  critics  rave. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Come  then,  darling,  what  is  it? 

SOPHIE 

[For  she  must  begin.] 

This  is  no  longer  the  little  house  in  the  Rue  des 
Petites  Champs. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
No? 

SOPHIE 
My  Dorval  will  not  find  it  the  garden  of  Eden. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Where  you  are,  dear — 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  adored  one,  but  your  Sophie  is,  so  to  speak, 
not  alone  in  Eden. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What? 

SOPHIE 

[Ever  so  reticently  now.] 
That — that  is,  darling, — 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
You  mean  the  serpent  is  lurking  here? 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 61 

SOPHIE 

I  think  that's  putting  it  a  little  too  fiercely,  Dor- 
val,  but  this  is  the  home  of  Mercy  d'Argenteau,  the 
Ambassador  from  Austria. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Suddenly  jumping  up.} 
And  you? 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  sit  down,  darling.  I  am  the  mistress  of  the 
menage. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
My  God,  Sophie,  you  have  not  done  that? 

SOPHIE 
Dearest,  only  for  my  art. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

Or  my  ambition,  call  it  what  you  will.  I  have 
never  lied  to  you,  Dorval;  now,  then,  take  my  two 
hands  in  yours  and  listen  to  your  Sophie.  [Re 
luctantly  he  sits  down  next  to  her.]  This  Gluck 
arrives  with  his  opera.  The  Dauphiness  orders  its 
production  for  the  greater  glory  of  Austria.  It  is 
the  most  magnificent  part  that  has  ever  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  a  prima  donna.  It  is  the  most  famous  pre- 


62 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

miere  that  will  ever  be  sung  at  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Music,  perhaps  anywhere  in  all  the  world,  Dor- 
val,  all  the  world.  Who  was  there  to  create  such 
a  part  but  your  Sophie?  Months  ahead  Levasseur 
began  her  campaign.  She  played  the  game,  so 
Paris  thought,  triumphantly.  Two  weeks  after 
Gluck  arrived  he  was  lord  and  master  of  her  boring 
menage.  During  all  this  Paris  pitied  Sophie — 
your  Sophie,  darling — pitied  me!  But  the  morn 
ing  Rosalie  awoke  to  see  Gluck's  wig  hanging  on 
her  bedpost,  Sophie  awoke  as  mistress  of  Mercy 
d'Argenteau,  Ambassador  from  Austria.  Rosalie 
had  got  her  composer  but  Sophie  had  got  the  Court. 
And  she  who  has  got  the  Court  of  Austria  has  got 
the  delicious,  wilful  Marie  Antoinette,  and  she  who 
has  got  the  delicious,  wilful  Marie  Antoinette  has 
got  the  power  and  so  because  of  my  unequalled 
genius,  though  the  part  was  always  rightly  mine, 
by  a  little  swifter  shuffling  of  the  aces,  Dorval,  to 
morrow  night  your  adored  one  creates  the  role  of 
Iphigenia ;  Paris  will  go  mad  with  ecstasy,  Levas 
seur  will  die  of  rage,  and  I  shall  be  done  for  ever 
with  His  Honour,  the  Ambassador  from  Austria. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Good  God,  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 
What  is  it,  darling? 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 63 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

I  am  ever  prepared  for  newness  to  the  mind  but 
when  it  hits  the  heart — 

SOPHIE 

Has  my  triumph  touched  your  heart?  Here,  a 
kiss  for  that. 

[She  bends  towards  him.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Shrinking  back.] 
Sophie,  has  God  gone  blind  in  your  heart? 

SOPHIE 
Whatever  do  you  mean,  Dorval? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

What  do  I  mean!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
do  not  know  that  even  though  you  are  the  most 
generous  woman  in  the  world  there  are  certain 
things  which  cannot  be  shared?  Have  you  forgot 
ten  that  I  was  the  first  man  you  ever  loved?  That 
when  we  eloped  together  from  your  parents'  house 
we  swore  that  I  should  be  the  only  one? 

[And  now  it  is  SOPHIE'S  turn  to  spring  up] 

SOPHIE 
Dorval,  can  I  ever  forgive  your  words? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Sophie,  can  I  ever  forgive  your  disloyalty  to  me? 


64 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

There  I  lay  in  prison,  all  the  while  I  kept  saying  to 
myself,  life  is  bitter,  what  is  there  left  for  me,  what, 
what?  And  then  my  heart  would  whisper:  So 
phie's  love,  Sophie's  loyalty,  and  the  parrot  would 
echo:  Sophie's  loyalty.  [And  now  his  voice  is 
quivering.]  Ah,  bitter  mockery  from  that  chest  of 
feathers.  No,  this  is  too  much  even  for  a  scientist 
to  bear.  Now  I  see  why  I  cannot  start  here  the 
beautiful  free  life  that  I  resolved  upon  in  prison. 
Now  I  see  why  I  will  not  be  able  to  go  about  re 
turning  to  Nature  with  nothing  on.  I  have  come 
back  but  to  go  away  again.  [He  gets  up,  putting 
the  marmoset  back  into  his  pocket.]  Life  should 
have  spared  me  this  at  least. 

SOPHIE 
What,  darling? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

The  terrible,  unbearable  indignity  of  seeing  you 
belong  to  another. 

[At  this  SOPHIE  bursts  into  a  long  and  re 
lieving  laugh.] 

SOPHIE 

Dorval,  the  Ambassador  is  nearly  seventy  and  his 
left  eyebrow  is  pasted  on. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
You  mean — 


ACT  I]  SOPHIE  65 

SOPHIE 

This,  my  adored  one,  is  only  a  relationship  of 
form.  I  will  explain.  The  exchange  on  Austrian 
notes  had  fallen  off.  The  credit  of  the  Austrian 
Empire  was  at  stake.  Some  great  play  had  to  be 
made  to  recoup  its  reputation.  The  moment  was 
auspicious  for  your  Sophie.  What  could  the  Am 
bassador  from  the  nation  beyond  the  Rhine  do  to 
win  back  the  loss  of  its  financial  prestige?  What 
sudden  move  to  prove  that  its  financial  power  was 
still  intact?  What  would  be  best  known  in  Paris? 
What  helpful  news  would  be  boomed  through  half 
of  Europe?  Why  this,  this,  Dorval  [and  her  voice 
is  vibrant],  that  Sophie  Arnould,  the  greatest  and 
most  costly  prima  donna  in  all  the  world  was  mis 
tress  of  the  Embassy  to  Austria.  No  nation  that 
was  tottering  could  afford  the  graceful  presence  of 
your  Sophie  at  the  Embassy.  That's  a  luxury 
which  might  be  called  extravagant  but  which  Eu 
rope  knows  is  worth  the  price. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
And  you,  my  darling? 

SOPHIE 

Marie  Leginska  is  queen  of  France  but  Du  Barry 
is  recipient  of  all  the  Royal  intimacies.  Your 
Sophie,  Dorval,  is  the  Marie  Leginska  to  the  Em 
bassy. 


66  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

And  with  great  success.  The  Austrian  notes  are 
over  par  and  I  myself  from  investments  on  the 
Exchange  have  put  away  enough  for  you  to  have 
a  beautiful  new  menagerie  for  all  the  beasts  that 
roam  the  world. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Joyfully  taking  the  marmoset  from  his 
pocket.] 

What  do  you  think  of  that,  Minnette?  I  will  im 
port  from  Asia,  from  the  most  perfumed  depths  of 
Cashmere,  a  tiny  mate  for  you.  Polly,  my  faithful 
friend  [and  out  comes  the  parrot] ,  didn't  I  whisper 
to  you  through  all  the  hours  of  the  night  that  Sophie 
was  a  genius? 

SOPHIE 

But  everything  must  be  managed  nicely,  at  least 
whilst  His  Honour  is  about.  Dorval,  your  Sophie 
must  retain  the  form.  It  wouldn't  be  proper  to 
have  you  about  the  house  except  at  certain  times, — 
certain  exquisite,  blissful  but — prearranged  times, 
particularly,  darling,  now  that  you  intend  going 
about  clad  only  in  your  sincerity. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Oh,  what  a  delightful  way  you  have  of  saying 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 67 

things.  One  kiss  because  you  are  as  wise  as 
Hypatia,  two  others  because  you  are  more  beautiful 
than  Cleopatra  and  three  because — 

SOPHIE 

[Amid  the  kisses.] 

I'm  Sophie.  After  tomorrow  night  all  will  be 
as  it  used  to. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Softly.} 

And  tonight? 

SOPHIE 
[In  his  arms.] 

It  is  of  tonight  that  I  have  been  dreaming,  of  to 
night,  dearest.  After  the  rehearsal  you  will  climb 
up  by  the  balcony — that  will  be  so  romantic — it 
will  be  almost  as  though  we  were  beginning  para 
dise  again. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Sophie!     Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

We  have  so  much  to  tell  each  other  I  think  it  will 
take  till  dawn. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
And  when  will  the  rehearsal  be  over? 

SOPHIE 
Whenever  I  am  ready.     All  I  have  to  do  is  to  lift 


68 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

my  little  finger  and  Papa  Gluck  trembles.     At  mid 
night,  Dorval. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Sophie,  it  is  twenty  years  till  midnight. 

SOPHIE 

Every  minute  until  then  I  shall  speak  your  name 
out  loud, — though  not  too  loudly, — like  this  [and 
her  hands  are  clasped  in  ecstasy  while  she  whispers] 
Dorval,  Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Every  minute  I  shall  kiss  the  air  like  this  [and 
he  catches  her  in  his  arms  and  rains  kisses  on  her 
lips,  saying  softly]  Sophie,  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 
Dorval,  until  midnight. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

And  then  for  ever.  But  on  the  way  I  saw  the 
moon  over  my  left  shoulder. 

SOPHIE 
Well,  what  of  it,  it  was  still  the  moon,  wasn't  it? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

It  is  an  omen.  All  truth  is  hid  in  omens.  Once 
I  consulted  an  astrologer,  it  was  in  Baluchistan. 
He  said  if  one  sees  the  moon  on  Tuesday  over  the 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 69 

left  shoulder  it  means  that  to  attain  the  heart's  de 
sire  will  take  much  wit  and  sudden  tact. 

SOPHIE 

[Ever  so  tenderly.] 

Dorval,  at  midnight.  Nothing  in  the  world  can 
prevent  it,  my  own  lover. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Echoing  her  tone.] 
Nothing,  you  are  right,  nothing. 

[They  are  in  a  mad  embrace.     Suddenly 
there  is  a  knock  at  the  door.] 

SOPHIE  ( 

What's  that?  I  have  forbidden  the  servants  even 
to  knock.  [The  sound  is  repeated.]  It's  from  the 
library.  Why,  that's  his  Reverence.  [She  lifts 
her  voice.]  Come  in. 

[THE  ABBE  enters  cautiously  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand.] 

SOPHIE 

[Presenting  the  two  gentlemen.] 
Father,  let  me  introduce  my  first  sin  to  my  last 
confessor. 

THE  ABBE 

[Bowing  to  DE  LAURAGUAIS.] 
Sir.      [Then  to  SOPHIE]  My  daughter,  you  will 
forgive  me,  but  one  of  the  lackeys  gave  me  this 


70 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

letter  saying  that  you  had  forbidden  them  even  to 
knock. 

SOPHIE 
Is  it  so  urgent? 

THE  ABBE 

The  lackey  said  that  the  third  secretary  of  the 
Ambassador  delivered  it  dispatched  to  you  and  that 
therefore  you  might  care  to  see  it  immediately. 

SOPHIE 
What  is  it? 

[She  is  about  to  take  the  letter.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Don't  touch  it.  I  have  again  just  seen  the  moon 
over  my  shoulder  through  the  window.  Father, 
you  must  first  bless  the  letter. 

SOPHIE 

Don't  be  silly,  Dorval,  we  are  not  in  Baluchistan. 
The  letter,  Your  Reverence. 

THE  ABBE 
I  hope  its  news  is  blessed. 

SOPHIE 
I  will  make  it  so. 

[She  takes  the  letter  and  sits  down  to  read 
it.  First  a  smile  comes  into  her  face,  then  a 
look  of  intense  surprise,  then  one  of  raging 
anger  as  she  springs  to  her  feet.] 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 71 

SOPHIE 
By  all  the  circles  of  the  hell  of  Dante,  no!  no! ! 

THE  ABBE 
Is  the  premiere  postponed?     Calm  yourself. 

SOPHIE 

[Storming  up  and  down.] 

This  is  too  much,  too  much.  Dorval,  you've 
looked  at  the  moon  to  some  purpose.  Curse  the 
moon,  curse  your  looking  and  most  of  all  curse 
this!  [The  letter,  of  course.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What  is  it,  dear? 

THE  ABBE 
Shall  I  go? 

SOPHIE 

Go  or  stay.  What  difference  does  it  make? 
This  is  a  matter  past  your  praying. 

[She  has  sunk  down  on  the  seat  of  the 
harpsichord  and  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  begins 
hitting  the  keys.] 

THE  ABBE 

You  will  break  the  strings.  Remember  the  re 
hearsal. 

SOPHIE 
Damnation  to  the  rehearsal.     To  hell  with  every- 


72 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

thing.     Your     pardon,     Father.     Never,     never, 
never! 

[She  is  beating  the  letter  with  her  clenched 
fist.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Very  well,  my  darling,  "never" — but  never 
what? 

SOPHIE 

This.  Listen  [and  she  reads  the  letter],  "Hon 
oured  and  Adored  Mademoiselle:  You  have 
crowned  my  house  and  table  with  the  glory  of  your 
presence  and  the  distinguished  wit  of  your  mind. 
Tonight  after  the  rehearsal  for  the  first  time  I  shall 
avail  myself  of  the  privilege  of  tasting  the  charming 
graces  of  your  beauty  in  a  less  distant  way.  Surely 
to  a  lady  of  your  swift  intelligence  I  need  write 
no  more.  With  a  thousand  most  profound  respects, 
I  sign  myself,  Your  most  obedient  servant,  and  may 
I  say,  your  lover,  D'Argenteau."  [She  crushes  the 
letter  in  her  hand.]  The  ridiculous  old  imbecile. 
The  dusty,  unbelievable  jelly-fish.  Father,  call 
down  the  wrath  of  heaven  on  him. 

THE  ABBE 
That  is  a  most  unusual  demand. 

SOPHIE 

Are  you  referring  to  the  letter?  Of  course  it  is. 
Outrageous!  If  he'd  only  waited  until  after  the 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 73 

premiere  tomorrow  night  I  would  have  sent  him 
flying,  the  old  conglomeration  of  ancient  impu 
dence. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

And  now,  now? 

SOPHIE 
Now  what? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What  are  you  going  to  do? 

SOPHIE 

How  do  I  know?  Father,  can  you  give  me  no 
spiritual  advice? 

THE  ABBE 

The  situation,  my  daughter,  I  am  afraid  is  not  in 
the  catechism. 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  of  course,  when  one  needs  your  help 
what  good  are  you  with  all  your  hymning? 
Heaven  forgive  me  but  I'm  all  distraught. 

THE  ABBE 
My  daughter,  control  yourself. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Yes,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  Sophie,  do, — for  with 
out  you  we  will  all  be  lost.  [Dejectedly  he  sits 
down.]  And  I  was  to  climb  up  the  balcony  and  it 
was  to  be  so  romantic. 


74 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  sob,  half  anger,  half  despair. ,] 
Don't,  don't,  you  are  killing  me. 

THE  ABBE 
Will  you  drink  a  glass  of  wine? 

SOPHIE 

Rather  a  goblet  of  tears  and  those  my  own. 
Dorval!  Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Not  knowing  what  to  do.] 
Sophie,  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  don't  keep  saying  Sophie,  Sophie,  just  be 
cause  I  keep  saying  Dorval,  Dorval.  Sophie, 
Sophie!  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  I'm  Sophie? 
Let  me  think,  let  me  think! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
By  all  means  do — do. 

[She  is  again  storming  up  and  down.] 

THE  ABBE 

My  daughter,  with  your  permission  I  will  wait  in 
the  library. 

SOPHIE 
That's  it,  bury  yourself  in  the  Fathers  of  the 


ACT  I] SOPHIE 75 

Church  and  leave  us  living  people  to  our  living 
problems.     Would  to  God  you  had  never  come  in. 

THE  ABBE 
My  daughter — 

SOPHIE 
[Excitedly.] 

I  mean  with  the  letter — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I 
mean. 

THE  ABBE 
Why  don't  you  pray?     Prayer  works  miracles. 

SOPHIE 

Pray!  Pray  that  a  man  that  has  been  showering 
me  with  money  and  whose  power  I  needed,  pray 
that  that  man  should  be  damned  to  eternity  because 
he  has  dared  to  ask  me  for  the  favour  of  my  beauty. 
Oh,  such  a  thing  has  never  been  heard  before  either 
in  heaven  or  on  earth.  And  because  of  that  you 
tell  me  to  pray. 

THE  ABBE 
[Calmly. 1 

I  must  acknowledge,  my  dear,  that  the  circum 
stances  are  slightly  peculiar,  but  nevertheless  I 
shall  be  waiting  in  the  library  if  you  need  me. 

[And  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  he 
most  thoughtfully  makes  his  exit.] 


76  SOPHIE  [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 
The  sly  old  libertine. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Looking  after  THE  ABBE.] 
What,  he? 

SOPHIE 

No,  not  he,  not  he.  [And  she  has  thrown  the 
letter  to  the  floor  and  is  stamping  on  it.  Suddenly 
her  mood  changes  and  she  says  very  tenderly:] 
Dorval,  my  darling,  what  has  become  of  our  mid 
night? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Love  will  find  a  way. 

SOPHIE 

[Fairly  shrieking  at  him.] 

"Love  will  find  a  way."  Oh,  spare  me  that,  not 
that.  Not  love,  but  Sophie.  I  haven't  been  yearn 
ing  for  you  for  weeks  and  weeks  to  give  you  up 
now  when  you've  just  come  back. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
But  you  can  be  ill  tonight. 

SOPHIE 

111?  Tonight  I  must  rehearse.  Gluck  will 
never  open  tomorrow  if  we  do  not  rehearse  tonight. 
So  much  satisfaction  I  cannot  give  to  Rosalie.  And 
as  for  D'Argenteau,  if  I  were  to  swear  I  were  at 


ACT  I]  SOPHIE  77 

death's  door,  that  infamous  old  reprobate  would  be 
waiting  on  the  other  side,  till  either  I  was  well  or 
had  in  earnest  died. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[As  though  indeed  it  were  hopeless.] 
Well,  and  what  will  you  do? 

SOPHIE 

Something,  something.  I  am  Sophie  Arnould. 
If  only  by  some  means  we  could  be  rid  of  this  Am 
bassador  until  tomorrow.  [She  stops  in  front  of 
the  harpsichord.]  If  only  there  were  a  way. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Coming  towards  her.] 
Darling,  have  you  forgotten  me? 

SOPHIE 
No,  darling,  do  I  act  as  if  I  had? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Sophie,  you  have  not  counted  on  me.  Am  I  for 
nothing  the  best  swordsman  in  France?  Have  I  for 
nothing  studied  every  herb  which  has  the  slightest 
pretension  of  being  called  a  poison?  Do  I  not 
know  the  secret  botany  of  Persia?  Is  it  to  be 
wasted  in  the  time  of  direst  need  that  I  can  shoot  a 
gold  ring  hung  from  a  pigeon's  neck,  said  pigeon 
being  at  the  time  of  shooting  in  full  flight? 
Sophie,  have  you  forgotten  me? 


78 SOPHIE [ACT  I 

SOPHIE 

No,  there  must  be  no  killing.  I  do  not  see  the 
use  of  a  lover  who  is  hanging  from  a  gibbet.  I 
am  a  realist.  Wait,  wait,  I  will  find  a  way.  [She 
stops  deep  in  thought.]  There  must  be  some  way, 
Dorval  dear.  [And  now  she  is  over  next  to  him 
and  they  are  again  in  each  other's  arms.]  If  all 
goes  well  at  midnight,  Dorval, — midnight. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

We  shall  see  what  the  wit  of  France  can  do 
against  this  Austrian.  [She  glances  up,  a  look  of 
mighty  cogitation  in  her  eyes.  Then  suddenly] 
Yes,  that  would  do  if  somehow  I  could  manage  it. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Magnificently.] 

If  all  else  fail,  my  darling,  I  will  sacrifice  my 
life  to  save  your  innocence! 

SOPHIE 

Dorval  dear,  you  are  very  brave  and  very  in 
genious,  but  even  you  cannot  save  what  doesn't 
exist. 

[And  as  they  kiss  again  the  curtain  falls.] 


ACT  II 

Half -past  nine,  which 
leaves  Sophie  in  danger. 


ACT  II 

DE  LAURAGUAIS  is  discovered  at  a  table  near  the 
harpsichord,  assiduously  writing  with  a  big 
quill.  THE  ABBE  with  a  sort  of  curious  ad 
miration  stands  watching  him.  On  the  table, 
beside  the  sheets  of  DE  LAURAGUAIS'  manu 
script,  is  a  flask  of  wine  and  several  glasses. 

THE  ABBE 

Monsieur,  I  admire  your  separation,  to  be  able 
thus  to  write  when  the  air  seems  tinged  with  tor 
ment  for  you  and  Madame  Sophie. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Looking  up.] 

Sophie  is  at  the  helm.  The  higher  the  sea  the 
more  expert  will  be  her  steering.  She  is  an  ador 
able  captain. 

THE  ABBE 
At  what  are  you  at  work? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

On  my  new  tragedy.  The  great  Voltaire  is  wait 
ing  at  Verney  to  hear  it.  Are  you  fond  of  tragedy? 
Will  you  hear  a  scene?  It  is  in  seven  acts  and  its 
theme  is  the  conquest  of  the  spirit  over  the  flesh. 

That  is  why  I  call  it  a  tragedy. 

81 


82  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

THE  ABBE 
So? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Man's  greatest  desire  is  to  be  his  deepest  undo 
ing.  The  theme's  a  deep  one  but  I  think  my  genius, 
if  I  let  it  go  unbridled,  can  encompass  it. 

THE  ABBE 
Do  you  find  it  difficult  to  write  great  plays? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Not  at  all.  All  I  do  is  write  many  very  compli 
cated  scenes  which  no  one  can  understand  and  I  am 
immediately  hailed  as  a  genius.  Playwriting  I 
take  as  a  pastime.  My  profounder  thoughts  are 
for  something  else. 

THE  ABBE 

[Glancing  towards  SOPHIE'S  boudoir.] 
My  son,  I  understand. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[But  you  see  THE  ABBE  doesn't.] 
Yes,  for  my  History  of  Arithmetic.  That  will 
be  something  that  will  startle  the  world.  It  will 
earn  for  me  an  invitation  into  the  Academy  of  the 
Immortals  but  I  shall  spurn  it.  Honours  are  not 
for  the  honourable.  Who  are  these  immortals? 
[He  goes  on  scratching  away.]  In  a  hundred 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 83 

years  they  will  be  entombed  in  the  cenotaph  of  the 
world's  forgetfulness. 

THE  ABBE 
Sic  transit — 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Are  you  interested  in  the  more  abstract  problems 
of  arithmetic? 

THE  ABBE 

I  would  have  to  be  if  I  were  to  number  the  num 
ber  of  souls  to  be  saved. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Have  you  ever  asked  yourself  why  there  should 
be  only  three  dimensions?  Have  you  ever  con 
sidered  why  two  and  two  should  make  four  and  not 
something  else? 

[From  SOPHIE'S  boudoir  comes  a  beautiful 
voice  in  a  shower  of  scales.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
That  is  Sophie  oiling  up  for  Papa  Gluck. 

[And  now  a  cadence  sung  in  purest  legato 
style  sustained  in  pianissimo.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Listen,  all  of  hope,  all  of  despair  crowded  into  a 
perfect  phrase. 


84  SOPHIE'  [ACT  II 

THE  ABBE 
You're  something  of  a  musical  critic,  too? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
I  am  everything  that  time  will  let  me  be. 

[Two  or  three  notes  soaring  and  then  the 
voice  is  still.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Now  she  is  still  and  the  silence  seems  like  silver, 
like  the  silence  in  a  meadow  when  a  rabbit  suddenly 
sticks  up  its  ridiculously  long  ears.  Have  you 
had  much  to  do  with  rabbits?  If  we  knew  all  about 
rabbits  we  would  know  all  about  everything  that 
ever  was.  Abstractions  are  the  only  realities. 

[Now  a  series  of  leaps  and  trills  from  the 
boudoir.'} 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Listen,  she  is  trilling  like  a  lark  whose  tiny 
bosom  is  too  small  for  so  great  a  passion.  [He 
calls  in  to  her.]  Darling,  do  you  mind  not  singing 
quite  so  loud?  I  am  just  in  the  midst  of  a  splendid 
scene  in  Act  Six.  How  extraordinary  my  Sophie 
is.  She  can  face  a  climax  with  a  song  on  her  lips. 
[More  scales  and  trills.]  Would  you  mind  closing 
the  door? 

[THE  ABBE  is  about  to.] 

SOPHIE'S  VOICE 
What  are  you  doing,  Dorval? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 85 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Dimming  your  voice,  darling. 

SOPHIE 
What? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

It's  so  beautiful  that  in  another  moment  your 
rapt  confessor  here  will  believe  that  he  is  in  heaven 
and  will  have  to  kill  himself  to  prove  it. 

[THE  ABBE  has  closed  the  door.  DE 
LAURAGUAIS  finishes  scrawling  his  page  and  is 
pleased  with  what  he  has  written  to  the  verge 
of  tears.] 

THE  ABBE 
It's  going  well,  isn't  it? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Magnificently.     Listen! 

[He  stands  up  and  is  about  to  read.] 

THE  ABBE 

[Starting  for  the  library,  a  thin  little  smile 
about  his  lips.] 

I  will  leave  you  to  your  genius.  I  think  that 
perhaps  my  soul  is  too  simple  for  all  this  glory. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

As  you  will.  But  don't  go  on  my  account.  You 
don't  disturb  me  in  the  least.  I'm  bubbling  over 
with  inspiration.  [He  again  sits  down  to  his 


86 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

tragedy.]  Nothing  can  disturb  me  now.  Nothing. 
[But  at  this  moment  the  door  of  SOPHIE'S 
boudoir  is  opened  and  she  stands  on  the 
threshold,  radiantly  gowned,  her  hair  done  in 
a  fantastic  coiffure,  "a  la  Iphigenie,"  a  cres 
cent  of  diamonds  ablaze  above  a  cloud  of 
chiffon,  cerulean  blue.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Glancing  up  from  the  splendid  scene  in 
Act  Six.] 

Admirable,  my  darling,  admirable,  but  why  all 
the  astronomy? 

SOPHIE 

I  shall  start  a  new  fashion  for  Papa  Gluck. 
Iphigenia  is  the  virgin  priestess  of  Diana.  The 
moon,  the  chaste  white  moon  is  her  symbol.  Lest 
you  have  any  doubts  this  is  the  moon.  [And  she 
points  to  the  crescent  in  her  hair.]  For  the  next 
few  months  every  lady  in  Paris  will  wear  her  hair 
like  this.  There  are  already  pastries  a  la  Sophie 
and  sachets  a  la  Sophie  and  babies  named  for 
Sophie.  Why  should  there  not  be  a  headdress  a 
la  Sophie?  I  am  a  prima  donna;  when  I  am  not  in 
people's  ears  it  is  well  that  I  should  be  in  their 
heads.  [Then  to  THE  ABBE.]  Have  you  had 
your  supper,  Father? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 87 

THE  ABBE 

Delicious  chicken  stuffed  with  truffles,  souffle,  al 
mond  cake  and  iced  wine. 

SOPHIE 

Listen,  Dorval,  how  he  smacks  his  lips,  and  these 
remote  Fathers  of  the  Church  are  supposed  to  be 
removed  from  all  earthly  joys.  Piety  has  its  nice 
rewards.  It  makes  it  so  easy  to  sin  without  sinning. 

THE  ABBE 

Madame,  I  shall  be  waiting  in  the  library  if  you 
need  me. 

SOPHIE 

[And  right  is  hers.] 

Who  knows,  I  may.  I  always  have  my  coach  at 
the  door,  my  blankets  perfumed  and  a  priest  in  the 
library.  Life  is  so  complicated. 

[And  thoughtfully,  his  hands  folded  behind 
his  back,  he  walks  into  the  library.] 

SOPHIE 

Dorval,  dear,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  I  think 
your  Sophie  is  a  little  nervous. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What  is  it,  dear? 

SOPHIE 

As  a  child  of  five  I  sang  before  the  Queen  with 
no  more  tremor  than  you  might  feel  milking  a 


88 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

cow  in  Brittany — of  course  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  you  know  how  to  milk  cows — but  tonight,  dear, 
events  come  crowding.  You,  Dorval  dear,  and 
Papa  Gluck  and  then  a  way,  a  sure,  quick,  sudden 
way  to  be  rid  of  this  Ambassador. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
And  what  will  my  sly  little  Sophie  do? 

SOPHIE 

Something,  dear.  The  instant  you  entered  the 
house  I  knew  that  life  which  is  sweet  as  a  duet  can 
never  be  sung  as  a  trio.  Dorval  darling,  D'Argen- 
teau  must  go. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Tell  him,  dear. 

SOPHIE 

Tell  him!  Hasn't  that  horrid  old  man  found  a 
sufficient  reason  for  staying? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Hasn't  my  little  lark  a  little  influence? 

SOPHIE 
Of  what  use  is  all  that  now? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

If  my  songstress  could  reach  the  King,  His  Maj 
esty  will  understand.  None  better  than  His  Maj- 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  89 

esty.     Tell  him  we  haven't  even  said  good  morning 
in  a  month. 

SOPHIE 

Du  Barry  doesn't  love  me.  I  cannot  reach  the 
King. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Well,  then,  there's  Minister  Choiseul. 

SOPHIE 

[Despondently.  ] 
And  he  has  left  this  evening  for  Vienna. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Ah,  that's  too  bad!  A  word  from  him,  a  little 
letter,  his  word  is  law.  The  jails  are  filled  with 
people  whom  Choiseul  doesn't  love. 

SOPHIE 

Darling,  it  was  Choiseul  sent  you  back  to  me. 
Here's  the  dear  letter  that  told  me  you  were  com 
ing.  [She  takes  the  letter  from  the  table.]  Dor- 
val!  Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Again  at  his  tragedy.] 
Darling,  are  there  many  rhymes  for  pageantry? 

[But  SOPHIE  doesnt  know  or  at  least  she 
doesnt  answer  as  she  stands  there  deep  in 
thought.] 


90 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
How  beautiful  my  Sophie  is. 

[And  he  is  up  and  has  taken  her  in  his 
arms.] 

SOPHIE 
Dorval,  if  it  could  be  managed  somehow. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Yes,  dear? 

SOPHIE 
But  what  are  we  going  to  do? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Anything  you  say,  dear,  but  you  mustn't  inter 
rupt  me  again.  A  beautiful  speech  has  just  come 
to  me.  [And  now  he  is  back  at  the  table  writing.] 
And  my  Sophie  ought  to  know  that  often  murder 
is  simpler  than  a  beautiful  speech. 

SOPHIE 

Murder,  my  gentle  Dorval?  [Her  eyes  are 
crinkled  in  consideration.]  Ah,  there's  a  thought 
on  which  to  hang  a  deed. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Oblivious.] 

This  line  should  have  a  noble  ending.  [And  he 
writes  it,  pleased.] 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  91 

SOPHIE 
[To  herself.] 
If  there  were  only  a  way. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Quiet,  dear,  quiet,  quiet! 

SOPHIE 

There  must  be.  [Dejectedly  her  head  drops 
and  she  is  looking  at  CHOISEUL'S  letter  which  is 
hanging  from  her  hand.]  There  must  be.  [Then 
suddenly  the  idea  comes  to  her.]  Why  not? 
There's  half  a  page  of  space.  Why  not?  [A  sec 
ond  more  and  she  has  folded  over  the  edge  of 
CHOISEUL'S  letter  and  has  torn  off  the  lines  that  he 
has  written.]  If  needs  be,  this,  beside  the  soldiers. 
Why  not,  why  not? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Finishing  the  speech  he's  writing.] 
I've  got  it,  dear! 

SOPHIE 

[And  now  she  is  seated  at  the  table  opposite 
to  him.] 
And  so  have  I. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Listen!  [He  reads  from  his  manuscript.]  "The 
purple  blare  of  pageantry."  W'hat  do  you  think 
of  it? 


92 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

I  don't  think  of  it,  darling.  Go  on  with  your 
tragedy.  I'm  beginning  a  pretty  drama  of  my 
own. 

[And  for  a  little  while  there  is  quiet  whilst 
they  both  sit  writing.] 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  flourish  as  she  finishes.] 
I  think  by  now  the  water  will  be  hot  enough  to 
boil  this  ancient  goose  from  Vienna. 

[And  she  has  folded  the  letter  and  has  stuck 
it  in  her  bodice.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Still  in  flowing  inspiration  scribbling  on.] 
Beautiful!     Exquisite!     This  evening,  dear,  the 
muse  is  fluid.     Beautiful!     Beautiful! 

SOPHIE 

[Lovingly  bending  over  him.] 
Have  you  no  pity  for  that  poor  quill  making  it 
say  all  those  pompous  things? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Finishing  the  sentence  he  is  writing  and 
sprinkling  some  sand  on  the  manuscript.] 
And  what  is  it  my  Sophie  intends  to  do  this  eve 
ning? 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  93 

SOPHIE 

All  that  is  needed,  Dorval,  when  his  Excellency 
arrives.  [Then  in  anger.]  Oh,  I  can  see  him 
now,  strutting  in  at  the  very  moment  when  Rosalie 
will  be  enjoying  the  happiness  of  hearing  me  sing  a 
beautiful  B  Flat — my  B  Flats  are  famous,  Dorval. 
[Suddenly  she  bursts  into  song.]  La-la-la  la  la  la. 
Thank  God,  thank  God,  I  still  have  it  here.  [She 
is  pointing  to  her  throat.]  Ah,  what  an  artist  I 
am  to  retain  my  voice  when  at  this  very  moment  I 
know  what  is  going  on  in  the  mind  of  that  unblush 
ing  octogenarian  of  an  Ambassador.  First  I  must 
be  rid  of  Gluck  and  his  attendant  angel,  Rosalie. 
But  that  will  be  simple,  Dorval,  as  simple  as  pluck 
ing  marigolds  in  May.  Do  marigolds  grow  in 
May?  Ah  well,  no  matter,  and  then  for  my  Am 
bassador. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Still  writing  away.] 

Sophie,  if  he  insists. 

SOPHIE 

Heaven,  Dorval,  will  not  desert  a  prima  donna 
who  has  had  the  forethought  to  have  a  £ew  gen 
darmes,  if  necessary,  waiting  in  the  house,  and  if 
needs  be  a  little  letter.  [And  her  hand  is  on  her 
bosom.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
But  has  my  Sophie  forgotten  that  if  she  goes  too 


94 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

far  there  is  always  the  Count  de  Saint-Florentin 
and  his  dull,  dark  dungeons  to  make  my  Sophie 
behave? 

SOPHIE 

[Her  voice  the  harbinger  of  a  rage  about  to 
be  born.} 

Saint-Florentin!     Dorval,  if  it  weren't  for  him 

all  Paris  would  be  Sophie's     [And  then  her  voice 

is  like  a  flute  heard  at  the  far  end  of  a  lane.]     But 

Sophie  and  her  sisters,  the  angels,  will  find  a  way. 

[THE  FIRST  LACKEY  enters.] 

SOPHIE 
What  is  it? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  there  is  a  lady  at  the  door  who  begs  to 
see  you. 

SOPHIE 
There  always  is. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
She  is  in  need. 

SOPHIE 

Give  her  fifty  francs.  If  she  is  no  longer  hand 
some  give  her  sixty.  Where  there  is  less  beauty 
there  is  sure  to  be  more  need. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 95 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Madame,  she  beseeches  a  moment's  speech  with 

you. 

SOPHIE 

Tell  her  I  rehearse  tonight  and  can  see  no  one. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  your  pardon,  but  it  is  the  fourth  time 
today  that  she  has  come  whilst  you — 
[He  hesitates.] 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  go  on;  don't  you  suppose  I  know  that  you 
know  all  that  is  happening  in  this  house?  I  under 
stand  servants.  My  papa  didn't  keep  an  inn  for 
nothing. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

[And  in  his  eyes  is  the  suggestion  of  a 
twinkle.] 

No,  Madame,  I  don't  suppose  he  did  with  wine 
fifty  francs  a  keg. 

SOPHIE 
You  were  saying? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

That  the  lady  has  called  four  times  today  whilst 
you  were  riding  back  and  forth  to  the  Minister  of 
State  enquiring  whether  or  no  Monsieur  the  Count 
de  Brancas  Lauraguais  would  be  set  free  so  that 


96  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

you  and  he — if  all  goes  well — would  have  the 
charming  pleasure  of  each  other's  society  at  mid 
night. 

SOPHIE 

Bravo!  You  are  so  frank  that  now  I  know  you 
are  not  a  spy  of  the  Minister  of  Police. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

That  would  be  so  simple,  Madame,  and  not 
nearly  so  enjoyable  as  serving  you.  Madame,  we 
who  serve  in  this  world  must  also  have  our  little 
pleasures.  We  can  choose  the  employer  who 
amuses  us  the  most.  And  your  house,  Madame,  is, 
I  assure  you,  the  most-  delightful  one  in  Paris. 

SOPHIE 
Indeed? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Ah,  yes,  indeed,  Madame.  Whilst  the  lackeys 
elsewhere  have  to  wait  several  months  to  find  out 
what  is  happening  by  reading  the  Secret  Memoirs 
of  the  Police,  I  am  proud  to  say  that  with  you,  my 
lady,  it  is  much  more  diverting  to  get  all  the  news 
first  hand. 

SOPHIE 

[To  DE  LAURAGUAIS  still  busy  on  Act  Six.] 
Dorval  dear,  that  is  how  I  retain  my  servants.     I 
make  life  so  piquant  for  them. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 97 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Ah,  Madame,  if  you  only  knew.  [Perhaps  he  is 
laughing  deep  down  his  throat.]  How  could  I  de 
sert  the  services  of  a  lady  who  said  what  you  said 
to  the  Police  Inspector  when  he  questioned  you  the 
night  after  that  very  gay  little  supper  party  in  the 
Rue  des  Petits  Champs?  It  was  Tuesday  in  a 
February,  if  I  remember  rightly. 

SOPHIE 
And  what  did  I  say? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

The  talk  had  been  very  intimate  about  His 
Sovereign  Majesty,  the  King.  Your  pardon, 
Madame,  if  I  drink  a  glass  of  wine  to  the  King. 

[He  pours  out  a  glass  from  the  flask  at  the 
table  at  which  DE  LAURAGUAIS  1*5  writing.] 

SOPHIE 

[As  the  LACKEY  drinks.] 
Well,  what  did  I  say? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

[Putting  down  the  glass  and  barely  able  to 
conceal  his  mirthful  admiration.] 
Madame,  when  he  came  to  question  you  as  to 
what  had  been  said  you  said  you  did  not  remember. 

SOPHIE 
Of  course,  >yhv 


98  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

And  when  he  said  that  a  woman  like  you  should 
remember,  you  replied; — Madame,  you  will  per 
mit  me  [and  he  giggles  behind  his  hand]  you  re 
plied:  "That  before  a  man  like  him  you  were  not 
a  woman  like  you."  Whilst  I  can  expect  some 
thing  as  droll  as  that  any  day,  Madame,  I  have  no 
intention  of  living  and  listening  in  the  house  of  any 
one  except  the  divine  Sophie  Arnould. 

SOPHIE 
Thanks. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
May  I  show  the  lady  in? 

SOPHIE 
Any  other  time,  but  tonight — tonight — 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

As  you  command  me,  Madame,  but  there  is  a 
look  in  her  face  as  sad  and  as  tragically  beautiful 
as  your  own,  Madame.  That  is,  in  your  best  mo 
ments  at  the  opera. 

SOPHIE 
You  have  heard  me  at  the  opera? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Indeed  yes,  Madame.  You  see,  in  my  spare  mo 
ments  I  write  the  musical  critiques  for  the  First 


ACT  II] SOPHIE  _99 

Lackeys  Gazette.  They  have  a  first- hand  inti 
mate  tone  but,  of  course,  you  do  not  read  the 
Lackey  s  Gazette.  I'm  sorry  you  will  not  admit 
the  lady. 

SOPHIE 

It  is  some  silly  child  who  wishes  me  to  scrawl  my 
name  on  the  panels  of  her  fan,  or  to  stand  god 
mother  to  her  unborn  illegitimacy.  They  are  al 
ways  coming  to  me  for  help  and  for  advice.  If  it 
were  not  tonight  I  would  aid  her,  I  would  help  all 
my  suffering  sisters,  but  tonight  I  rehearse  and 
besides — 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[Smoothly .] 

I  shouldn't  be  worried  if  I  were  you,  Madame. 
I  think  you  will  carry  off  with  success  whatever  it 
is  you  are  planning  to  do  this  evening  to  get  rid  of 
your  honourable  protector,  the  Ambassador  from 
Austria.  Now  as  to  this  young  lady  on  your  door 
step — 

SOPHIE 

Go.  I  have  heard  enough  of  this  lady  on  my 
doorstep. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Again  your  pardon,  Madame,  but  unless  I  am 
very  much  mistaken  the  lady  is  an  aristocrat. 


100_       I  -  : :-  SOPHIE [ACT  II 

*.A     SOPHIE 

[A  little  more  interested.] 
Indeed? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Yes,  my  lady,  each  time  she  came  back  I  left 
word  that  she  was  to  come  back  again  because  I 
thought  that  you  would  care  to  speak  to  her. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Writing  away.] 

But,  Sophie,  if  you  see  all  the  people  that  stand 
on  your  doorstep — 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[  Very  significantly.  ] 
Madame,  I  should  see  her  if  I  were  you. 

SOPHIE 

[Reading  his  tone.] 

She  is  a  woman.  We  women,  the  weak  of  the 
world,  should  stand  together. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  I  assure  you,  the  young  lady's  emotion 
is  very  genuine.  I  am  a  judge  of  acting.  I  have 
studied  the  art  of  Madame  Arnould.  Unless  I  am 
greatly  mistaken  the  matter  with  the  lady  is  some 
thing  of  the  heart. 

[He  is  looking  curiously  at  SOPHIE.] 


ACT  II] SOPHIE  JL&l 

SOPHIE 
[Quickly.] 
Show  her  in.     Show  her  in. 

[And  THE  FIRST  LACKEY  makes  his  exit.] 

SOPHIE 
Something  of  the  heart? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Of  course,  when  a  woman  is  in  trouble  it  is  al 
ways  trouble  with  the  heart. 

SOPHIE 

[Perhaps  a  little  bit  sentimentally.] 
Love  wounds  us  and  if  we  are  not  wounded  we 
die  because  we're  not. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

And  has  my  Sophie  ever  thought  that  the  passion 
of  love  is  as  strong  in  a  widow  as  in  a  young  girl 
in  whose  trembling  bosom  the  flame  of  love  has  been 
for  the  first  time  lighted? 

SOPHIE 
That  is  so. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

But  the  widow  hasn't  the  same  excuse  as  the 
young  girl,  which  is  curiosity. 

SOPHIE 
No,   Dorval,  but  habit,   confirmed  habit.     Go, 


'1*02  SOPHIE [ACT  II 

she  is -coming'.'    Wait  in  the  library  with  the  Abbe. 
Woman  to  woman  is  fairer  with  no  man  about. 

[DE  LAURAGUAIS  exits  and  SOPHIE  goes  over 
to  the  mantelshelf  and  looks  at  the  clock.] 

SOPHIE 

Ten  minutes  before  Papa  Gluck  arrives.  [She 
sings  a  passage.]  Tra  la  la  la  la  la.  Still  there! 
still  there! 

[THE  FIRST  LACKEY  stands  in  the  door.] 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[Bowing.] 
Madame. 

[A  young  girl  enters.  Over  her  dress  she 
wears  a  long  cloak  with  a  hood  that  all  but 
hides  her  face.] 

SOPHIE 
Madame,  you  wish  to  speak  to  me? 

[The  girls  inclines  her  head.  SOPHIE  mo 
tions  to  the  LACKEY  and  he  exits.] 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  I  am  Vivienne  de —     [Suddenly  she 
stops.     She  advances  a  step  nearer  to  SOPHIE.] 
Madame  Arnould,  I  have  come  to  you — 
[Her  voice  falters.] 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  Madame,  sit  down,  sit  down. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 103 

VlVIENNE 

If  you  can  spare  me  some  few  moments  from 
your  crowded  life? 

SOPHIE 

You  are  right,  my  child.  Never  was  my  life 
more  crowded  than  this  evening. 

[ViviENNE    instinctively  turns  toward  the 
door,  a  sob  checking  her  voice.] 

SOPHIE 

[Tenderly,  to  stop  her.] 
What  is  it,  Madame? 

[Suddenly  the  girl  rushes  over  and  throws 
herself  at  SOPHIE'S  feet.] 

VIVIENNE 

Madame,  you  will  pardon  my  rash  impetuous- 
ness? 

SOPHIE 

My  child,  my  child.  [And  she  lifts  the  girl's 
hood,  starting  back  in  amazement  but  controlling 
her  surprise.]  How  pale  you  are,  how  very  pale! 

VIVIENNE 

Madame  Arnould,  I  have  come  to  you  because 
you  know  the  human  heart. 

SOPHIE 
And  your  mother,  child? 


104 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

VlVIENNE 

My  mother,  she  is  dead. 

SOPHIE 

[Quietly.] 

So! 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  you  will  know,  you  will  understand. 
To  my  father,  Madame,  your  name  stands  for  all 
that — that — is  evil. 


SOPHIE 

[Her  lips  tightening  a  little.] 
Indeed,  rny  child? 


VlVIENNE 

But,  Madame,  you  will  tell  me  what  to  do.  My 
father  does  not  understand.  To  you  life  is  no 
snare  of  blind  prejudices.  You  will  know,  you 
will  understand.  To  you  life  is  no  bitter  tradi 
tion  to  be  followed  but  a  gorgeous,  free  pattern  to 
be  made.  Madame,  you  will  help  me.  I  have 
come  to  you  because  of  all  women  in  Paris  you 
know  the  human  heart. 

SOPHIE 

If  I  do  it  is  because  I  have  listened  to  life  and 
not  to  lies.  You  are  not  the  first  girl,  my  child, 
who  has  come  to  Sophie  Arnould.  There,  there. 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  105 

[ViviENNE  is  weeping  now,  her  head  is  in 
SOPHIE'S  lap.     SOPHIE  is  stroking  her  hair.} 

VIVIENNE 

You  will  tell  me  what  to  do?  You  will  under 
stand  my  suffering.  I  am  on  my  knees  to  you  as 
though  to  the  Madonna. 

SOPHIE 

The  Madonna?  Do  not  let  your  imagination 
run  away  with  you. 

VIVIENNE 

I  am  on  my  knees  begging,  beseeching  you  for 
your  advice.  Madame — 

SOPHIE 

[Quietly  taking  her  hand.] 
So,  it  is  something  of  the  heart. 

VIVIENNE 
Madame,  madame — 

SOPHIE 

We  women!  What  are  we  but  big  children, 
amused  with  toys,  lulled  to  sleep  with  flatteries  and 
seduced  with  promises.  I  know,  my  child,  you've 
given  everything,  your  life,  your  love  to  some  one 
who  has  cast  it  off  as  nothing. 

VIVIENNE 
[Hysterically.] 
Would  to  God  I  had. 


106 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[And  she  is  more  surprised  than  she  knows.] 
What? 

VlVIENNE 

Would  to  God  I  had! 

SOPHIE 

It  is  a  gift,  Madame,  that  deserves  the  giving  and 
the  taking. 

VlVIENNE 

[Sobbing.] 
I  will  tell  you  all,  all. 

SOPHIE 
[Expectantly.] 
All? 

[She  bends  forward,  looking  into  the  girl's 
eyes  and  instinctively  again  VIVIENNE  turns 
away.  There  is  a  pause.] 

SOPHIE 
All  or  nothing,  Madame,  as  you  will. 

VlVIENNE 

What  am  I  to  do?     What?     I  am  so  terribly  in 
love  that — 

SOPHIE 
When  are  we  women  not? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 107 

VlVIENNE 

And  now  he  is  going  away  for  ever. 

SOPHIE 

I  do  not  understand.  I  thought  love  to  most  men 
was  like  an  enigma.  When  the  puzzle  is  solved 
then  the  interest  ceases. 

VlVIENNE 

We  love  as  none  have  ever  loved  before. 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  it  is  thus  each  time  and  each  time  it  is  true. 

VlVIENNE 

But  my  father,  Madame. 

[Suddenly  the  light  dawns  on  something  not 
quite  so  near  to  SOPHIE'S  knowledge,  for  she, 
even  as  a  young  girl,  had  taken  her  own  des 
tiny  into  her  hands  and  eloped  with  DE  LAURA- 
GUAIS.] 

SOPHIE 

Your  father?  Then  this  is  a  tragedy  of  a  father 
and  not  a  step  too  far. 

[She  is  again  peering  into  the  girl's  face.] 

VlVIENNE 

[In  terror.] 
Madame,  you  know  who  my  father  is? 

SOPHIE 
[Avoiding  the  intenseness  of  her  gaze.] 


108 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

A  gentleman,  I  am  sure,  Madame,  for  you  are  his 
daughter. 

VlVIENNE 

He  has  forbidden  it,  Madame.  Never  will  a  pen 
niless  soldier,  even  though  he  is  a  captain,  be  his 
son-in-law.  Today  he  has  driven  Etienne  from  the 
house.  Madame,  I  am  distraught,  distraught. 

SOPHIE 
Well,  there's  tomorrow. 

VlVIENNE 

[Bitterly.] 
Tomorrow. 

SOPHIE 
Tomorrow.     The  cure  or  grave  of  all  things. 

VlVIENNE 

[Tearfully.] 
That  is  not  all. 

SOPHIE 

Madame,  you  must  be  calm.  I  must  know. 
How  else  can  I  help  you? 

VlVIENNE 

[Attempting  to  control  herself.] 
I  will  tell  you  everything. 

SOPHIE 

Yes? 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  109 

VlVIENNE 

My  father  has  acted  swiftly. 

SOPHIE 
And  you? 

VlVIENNE 

I  am  at  my  wits'  end.     My  heart  is  flooded  with 
agony.     Etienne  is  my  soul,  my  life. 

SOPHIE 

[Again  gently  stroking  her  hair.] 
Madame,  Madame. 

VlVIENNE 

Life  without  him  is  death,  death. 

SOPHIE 
I  know. 

VlVIENNE 

That  is  why  I  have  come  to  you  for  help. 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  lip  is  maybe  curled  a  little.] 
To  the  first  lady  in  France  that  a  father  would 
have  chosen  as  a  confidante. 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  do  not  jest  with  me. 


110  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

I  am  not  jesting,  but  why,  why,  I  wonder,  has 
the  web  of  life  weaving  so  far  apart  spun  you  and 
me  together? 

VIVIENNE 

My  father  has  used  his  power.  He  is  a  friend, 
Madame  [and  her  voice  comes  slowly  now}  of 
Choiseul. 


SOPHIE 
Choiseul? 

[Half  consciously  her  hand  again  covers 
the  letter  in  her  bosom.  There  is  a  pause. 
She  is  waiting  for  VIVIENNE  to  go  on.] 

VIVIENNE 
[After  a  moment.] 

Through  the  power  of  the  Minister  of  State,  Eti- 
enne's  Regiment  has  been  transferred.  As  I  speak, 
Madame,  they  are  about  to  leave  for  Le  Havre  and 
then, — then  America.  He  will  never  come  back, 
Madame,  there  are  rumours  of  war  in  America. 

SOPHIE 

Are  there?  Like  Marie  Antoinette  I  think  that 
the  operas  of  Gluck  are  of  more  importance  than 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 111 

the  trifling  troubles  of  these  barbarians.  America, 
America.  I  seem  to  have  heard  the  name.  Is  it 
not  the  abode  of  wild  men  with  huge  feathers  and 
tiny  tomahawks?  But  your  soldier,  my  child? 


VlVIENNE 

[Her  voice  like  an  aeolian  harp  aswing 
in  the  wind.] 

He  will  never  come  back.  Never!  [Then  with 
tragic  emotion.]  If  I'd  only  given  myself  to  him, 
there  at  least  would  have  been  the  memory  of  that 
before  I  die.  Would  to  God  I  had,  would  to  God 
I  had! 

SOPHIE 

Ah,  my  child,  how  brave  these  words  are,  this 
giving  and  this  dying.  How  many  girls  are  there 
like  you  whose  life  has  suddenly  become  a  dream  of 
wild  romance  in  a  safe  little  world  of  satin,  how 
many  are  there,  as  exquisite  as  you,  who  can  give 
themself  to  a  man  except  in  marriage  and  still  hold 
him  and  his  love  and  his  respect?  No,  do  not 
shriek  out, — do  not  say  what's  in  your  heart  that 
love  is  all  that  matters — sometimes,  yes.  Some 
day  when  you  are  older  you  will  know  that  I  am 
right. 

VlVIENNE 

Oh,  would  that  I  were  dead! 


112  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  yes,  but  one  must  be  alive  to  wish  it.  Do 
not  turn  away. 

VIVIENNE 
Madame! 

SOPHIE 

My  child,  how  many  women  are  there,  do  you 
think,  of  all  who  have  died  for  love?  Your  sort, 
my  child,  and  mine,  how  many  are  there  who,  if 
they  could  have  spoken,  after  the  filthy  river  had 
flowed  into  their  mouths  would  have  said  that  the 
deed  was  worth  the  doing.  No!  Fate  means  it 
another  way  for  you.  You  must  marry  Etienne. 

VIVIENNE 
[Desperately.] 
Marry  Etienne!     How?     How? 

SOPHIE 

I  see  it  clearly  written  in  your  eyes.  Your  frailty 
will  be  your  strength.  You  will  be  safer  in  the 
fortress  that  the  world  calls  marriage.  As  for  us 
others,  well,  my  dear,  if  a  woman  would  fly  into  the 
face  of  the  world  she  must  have  either  a  terrible 
bravery  or  a  more  terrible  contempt.  There,  there ! 
I'm  wasting  all  this  breath  and  in  a  few  moments 
I'm  to  sing  for  Cluck.  You  must  marry  Etienne. 

VIVIENNE 
[Tragically.] 
Madame,  as  you  speak  his  regiment  is  leaving 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 113 

Paris.     If  he  deserts  his  regiment  it  is  death.     If 
he  goes  I  know  he  never  will  return. 

SOPHIE 
You  are  right.     He  never  will  return. 

VIVIENNE 
Don't  say  that.     Don't  say  that. 

SOPHIE 
He  will  never  return  because  he  will  not  go. 

VIVIENNE 
What,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
I  said  he  will  not  go. 

VIVIENNE 
Who  will  prevent  him? 

SOPHIE 
[Calmly.] 
I. 

VIVIENNE 
How?     How? 

SOPHIE 

Give  me  a  moment  to  think  it  over.     It  will  take 
swift  action  and  some  little  tact. 

VIVIENNE 
[At  a  loss.] 
Madame,  is  this  an  affair  of  tact? 


114 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  all  things  are.  Tact  is  to  know  how, 
when.  [She  has  got  up.]  This  is  not  so  simple, 
but  I  am  Sophie. 

[And  now  she  is  pacing  up  and  down  think 
ing  of  a  way.] 

VlVIENNE 

[Following  her,  her  arms  outstretched.] 
Hasten,  Madame,  hasten. 

SOPHIE 

My  dear,  I  advise  you  not  to  make  love  to  Eti- 
enne  as  quickly  as  you  follow  me  about.  Ardour 
is  all  in  the  nuance. 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  you  are  making  sport  of  me.  When  I 
leave  your  house  tonight  it  will  be  to  die. 

SOPHIE 

Then  I  do  not  think  you  will  leave  my  house  to 
night  until —  Ah,  if  at  this  moment  I  only  had  the 
royal  seal  of  France. 

VlVIENNE 
Hurry!     Hurry! 

SOPHIE 
But  failing  that  I  still  have  my  imagination, 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  115 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  at  this  moment  Etienne's  regiment  is 
leaving  Paris. 

[She  is  sobbing  violently.] 

SOPHIE 

Don't,  I  beg  of  you.  Your  sobbing  drowns  my 
thoughts.  How  shall  we  do  it?  How?  [She  is 
at  the  table  at  which  DE  LAURAGUAIS  has  been  writ 
ing  his  tragedy.]  Ah,  if  I  only  had  his  quaint 
imagination.  [She  has  taken  up  DORVAL'S  quill 
and  is  pressing  it  to  her  lips.]  Dorval!  Dorval! 

VlVIENNE 

What,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 

Nothing,  I  am  thinking.  [And  she  is,  her  shoul 
der  on  the  table,  her  tiny  thumb  pressed  against 
her  teeth.]  Shall  it  be  the  Queen? 

VlVIENNE 

Her  Majesty! 

SOPHIE 

No,  no  one  has  ever  heard  of  the  Queen  in  Paris. 
[More  cogitation.]  Du  Barry?  No,  with  that 
cherub's  smile  of  hers  she'd  use  the  trick  against 
me. 

VlVIENNE 

Hasten!     Hasten! 


116     SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

My  dear,  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day  though 
burnt  in  an  hour.  Who's  left  at  Court  whose  name 
would  matter?  Why  not  the  Dauphiness?  Yes, 
she's  my  friend.  Yes,  Marie  Antoinette  will  do. 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  you  do  not  know  my  father.  It  is  too 
late,  to  appeal  to  the  Court. 

SOPHIE 

Don't  be  ridiculous.  We  will  not  appeal  to  the 
Court.  The  Court  will  appeal  to  us. 

VlVIENNE 
Madame,  I  do  not  understand. 

SOPHIE 

Of  course  you  don't.  Now  I  will  tell  you  more 
that  you  do  not  understand.  The  Dauphiness  de 
sires  the  presence  of  this  lad  in  Paris. 

VlVIENNE 

[Aghast.] 
Madame! 

SOPHIE 
[Smiling.] 

How  swift  you  are,  but  wrong.  /  say  she  wishes 
it.  She  has  used  me  to  obtain  her  will.  Such  a 
letter  a  Princess  dare  not  write  herself.  Yes,  that 
will  do.  Marie  Antoinette,  Sophie  Arnould — that 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 117 

will  do,  that  will  do.      [Then  as  the  quill  rushes 
on.]     Where  is  your  soldier  now? 

VlVIENNE 

At  his  Barracks — Rue  Sainte  Margarette. 

SOPHIE 

Rue  Sainte  Margarette.  Some  thirty  words, 
much  dark  intention,  two  mighty  names  and  the 
deed  is  done.  Listen!  [and  she  reads  what  she 
has  written.]  "Sir  Honoured  Major  Colonel  of 
the  Seventh  Cadets,  Rue  Sainte  Margarette.  As 
you  are  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  this  shall  be  se 
cret  until  the  end  of  time.  At  the  urgent  wish  of 
no  less  a  one  than  Her  Serene  Highness,  Marie 
Antoinette,  I  address  you.  For  reasons  of  State 
and  of  most  vital  moment  to  the  heart  and  realms 
of  Austria  and  France,  dispatch  at  once  Captain 
Etienne" — [then  speaking]  why  look,  I've  forgot 
ten  his  name.  What  is  it? 

VlVIENNE 

Etienne! 

SOPHIE 
Of  course  Etienne.     But  what,  what? 

VlVIENNE 

Etienne  Mars. 

SOPHIE 

Etienne  Mars!  Splendid!  Thank  God  the 
name's  a  short  one.  See,  I  can  just  crowd  it  in. 


118  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

Etienne  Mars.  Was  ever  a  gallant  soldier  more 
gallantly  named?  [Then  again  reading.]  "Of 
most  vital  moment  to  the  heart  of  France,  despatch 
at  once  to  the  Austrian  Embassy,  Captain  Etienne 
Mars.  Some  day  my  arms  may  be  about  your 
neck  in  gratitude."  [She  looks  up.]  That  alone 
would  be  sufficient.  [Then  back  to  the  letter.] 
"Yours  in  the  guarding  of  a  mighty  name,  Sophie 
Arnould."  [And  in  her  eyes  already  sits  the  vic 
tory.]  Sophie  Arnould,  Marie  Antoinette,  not 
even  Saint  Anthony  could  resist  two  such  lovely 
names.  [She  is  up  from  the  table.]  Now  you 
must  do  as  I  bid  you. 

VIVIENNE 
Whatever  you  wish,  Madame.     Whatever  you 

say. 

SOPHIE 

Good!     Sit  down.     You,  too,  must  write  a  letter. 
[And  VIVIENNE  sits  waiting  whilst  SOPHIE 
stands  in  thought.] 

SOPHIE 
How  shall  we  word  your  farewell  to  your  father? 

VIVIENNE 
Farewell? 

SOPHIE 
Of  course,  my  dear,  the  matter's  tragic. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 119 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  you  will  save  Etienne? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  yes.  Here  take  this  quill.  [She  lifts  the 
one  that  DE  LAURAGUAIS  has  been  using.]  It  is 
used  to  tragedy. 

[ViviENNE  site  waiting  as  SOPHIE  stands  in 
thought.] 

SOPHIE 

How  shall  we  word  the  letter  to  your  father? 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see.  [A  moment  more  of  thought 
and  she  begins  dictating.]  Father,  I  am  dead. 
[Then  suddenly.]  No,  that's  too  swift  and  too 
much  speed  will  ruin  the  effect.  No,  'that  will  never 
do,  but  on  the  other  hand  we  cannot  take  too  long. 
The  blow  must  be  a  sudden  one.  [Then  with  the 
inspiration  of  a  new  idea.]  Perhaps  it  would 
sound  more  moving  in  verse.  I  wonder. 

VIVIENNE 
Etienne!     Etienne! 

SOPHIE 

My  child,  you  must  control  yourself.  [A 
pause.]  Yes — now  write  as  I  dictate.  Honoured 
Father:  The  cup  of  life  has  been  too  bitter  for  my 
quaffing.  [And  now  she  is  smiling,  as  softly  she 
says  to  herself]  Dorval  could  do  no  better. 


120 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

VlVIENNE 

What,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
[Swiftly.] 

No,  that's  not  in  the  letter.  What  have  you  writ 
ten? 

VlVIENNE 

[Reading.] 

Honoured  Father:  The  cup  of  life  [her  sobs  get 
the  better  of  her  and  she  cannot  go  on]  Madame — 
Madame. 

SOPHIE 

[After  a  moment  watching  her.] 
My  child,  let  some  of  the  tears  fall  on  the  letter. 
There's  nothing  more  real  than  reality. 

VlVIENNE 

[Again  controlling  herself,   takes   up  the 
quill] 
Yes,  yes. 

SOPHIE 

I  know  it  isn't  easy,  dear.  It  never  is  easy  to 
say  farewell  except,  they  say,  to  a  husband.  Ah 
yes,  where  were  we?  [She  looks  over  VIVIENNE'S 
shoulder,  reading.]  The  cup  of  life  has  been  too 
bitter  for  my  quaffing. 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  I —     My  hand  is  trembling. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 121 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  it  should,  it  should.  Now  finish  with 
[She  again  dictates.]  When  you  read  these  lines 
your  daughter —  [She  stops.]  You  are  perhaps 
an  only  child? 

VIVIENNE 

[Through  her  tears.] 
Yes. 

SOPHIE 

Good!  That  makes  it  irresistible.  How  far 
have  you  written? 

VIVIENNE 
[Reading.] 
When  you  read  these  lines  your — 

SOPHIE 

[Again  dictating.] 

Your  Vivienne,  your —  [Her  voice  deeply 
stressing  the  words.]  Your  Vivienne,  your  only — 
underline  only — child,  will  be  floating  dead  in  the 
Seine.  There,  I  think  that  ought  to  do. 

VIVIENNE 

[Springing  up  in  terror.] 
Madame,  madame,  dead  in  the  Seine. 

SOPHIE 
[Quietly.] 
A  moment  ago  you  would  have  killed  yourself 


122  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

for  love.  Be  calm.  It  is  ever  so  much  more  com 
fortable  being  dead  in  a  letter  than  in  the  river. 
Yes,  that  will  do.  In  an  hour  you  will  be  floating 
in  the  Seine. 

VlVIENNE 

[She  has  heard  of  such  ends  to  love.] 
The  Seine! 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  would  you  prefer  the  Jordan  or  the  Styx. 
That  would  take  longer  and  be  more  difficult  to  man 
age  but  still  I'm  Sophie. 

VlVIENNE 

[For  things  are  moving  vertiginously.] 
Madame,  it  is  all  so  swift. 

SOPHIE 

So  is  a  century  in  the  race  with  time.  In  an 
hour  you  will  be  floating  in  the  Seine  and  half  an 
hour  after  that  you  will  be  married  to  Etienne. 

VlVIENNE 

Married? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  here,  my  child.  The  priest  is  already  in 
the  library.  Here,  in  the  house  of  Sophie  Arnould, 
here  in  this  holy  shrine  of  pale  innocence  and 
bright  love.  [And  now  she  is  thinking  over  ex 
actly  how  she'll  manage  it  as  she  looks  at  the  letter 
she  has  written.]  Dorval — yes — my  coach — yes 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  123 

— yes.  My  dear,  it  oughtn't  take  more  than  an 
hour  before  Etienne's  here.  What's  he  like? 
Wouldn't  it  be  too  shocking  if  after  all  I  didn't 
like  him? 

[She  rushes  over  and  pulls  the  bell-rope.] 

VIVIENNE 

Like  him!  Madame,  he  is  the  hero  of  my 
dreams. 

SOPHIE 

You  should  be  a  novelist.  You  have  such  a 
new,  fresh  way  of  saying  things.  [And  now  she 
is  bending  over  VIVIENNE.]  And  is  your  letter 
finished?  Good!  Good!  [Then  she  dips  her 
finger  into  one  of  the  flower  vases  and  sprinkles 
the  drops  of  water  on  the  sheet.]  More  tears, 
more  tears.  Man's  heart  is  but  a  ship  afloat  on 
woman's  tears.  [ VIVIENNE  looks  up.]  No,  dear, 
don't  put  that  into  the  letter,  though  I  think  it 
might  do  very  nicely  in  Dorval's  tragedy. 
[THE  SECOND  LACKEY  enters.] 

SOPHIE 

See  that  this  lady  is  kept  alone  and  undisturbed 
in  the  little  blue  room  beyond  my  boudoir  until  I 
let  you  know. 

[She  again  pulls  the  bell-rope.     Then  to 
VIVIENNE.] 

SOPHIE 
You  have  supped? 


124  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  I — 

SOPHIE 

Nonsense.  [Then  to  THE  SECOND  LACKEY.] 
See  that  supper  is  served  to  this  young  lady. 

[THE  LACKEY  is  preceding  VIVIENNE  to  the 
exit  on  the  left.] 

VIVIENNE 
Madame,  can  I  ever — 

SOPHIE 

Tut!  Tut!  Go  eat  your  supper,  dear,  and 
drink  some  wine.  Remember  you  must  be  brave. 
In  an  hour  you're  going  to  your  own  wedding. 
These  marriages,  these  marriages,  if  I  ever  have  a 
daughter  I  shall  be  the  only  woman  at  her  wedding 
who  won't  be  married.  [ VIVIENNE  is  about  to 
speak.]  There,  dear,  later  you  can  thank  me. 

VIVIENNE 

[Standing  in  the  exit  left.] 
Madame! 

[She  turns  to  go,  but  SOPHIE  stops  her  with 
a  sly  little  smile  in  her  eyes.] 

SOPHIE 

But,  my  child  [and  her  voice  is  as  though  her 
ear  were  to  a  keyhole] ,  my  child,  this  letter  to  your 
father,  to  whom  shall  we  send  it  and  just  where? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 125 

VlVIENNE 

Madame,  I  am  so  happy  that  I  quite  forgot. 

[She  rushes  back  to  the  table  and  with  DOR- 
VAL'S  quill  addresses  the  letter.  SOPHIE 
stands  watching  her.  In  a  moment  the  ad 
dress  is  written  and  she  hands  the  document  to 
SOPHIE.] 

SOPHIE 

You  have  forgotten  the  sand  but  no  matter. 
[She  stands  waving  the  letter  in  her  hand.] 
Madame —  [She  points  to  the  door  left.]  Wait 
in  the  little  blue  room  beyond  my  boudoir. 

[And  the  instant  VIVIENNE  has  made  her 
exit  SOPHIE  glances  at  the  address,  a  look  of 
fun,  or  is  it  triumph  in  her  face.] 

SOPHIE 

I  thought  so  from  the  beginning.  I  have  seen 
her  at  the  King's  Levee. 

[She  turns  to  see  THE  FIRST  LACKEY  stand 
ing  in  the  room.] 

SOPHIE 
I  suppose  you  were  listening  to  everything. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[Very  respectfully.] 
Certainly,  Madame. 


126  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[Barely  able  to  suppress  her  laughter.} 
Well? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

I  think,  Madame,  that  this  is  apt  to  be  the  most 
diverting  of  all  your  little  comedies.  Oh,  what 
a  privilege  to  live  in  Madame's  house. 

SOPHIE 
Have  the  gendarmes  come? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
They  are  waiting  below  in  the  pantry. 

SOPHIE 
See  that  each  has  a  bottle  of  wine. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Madame,  I  have  seen  to  that  already. 

SOPHIE 

And  in  a  little  while  have  them  shown  into  the 
library.  One  never  knows. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Ah,  how  true.     One  never  knows. 

SOPHIE 

[Nervously  singing  a  few  notes.] 
La-la.      [She  puts  her  fingers  to  her  throat.] 
My  voice!     God  be  praised  it's  still  there. 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  127 

[Then  she  rushes  over  to  the  door  of  the 
library.] 

SOPHIE 
[Calling.] 
Dorval !     Dorval ! 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[One  of  his  eyebrows  a  bit  asquint.] 
Madame,  the  Count  is  reading  his  tragedy  to  the 
Abbe. 

SOPHIE 

[Nevertheless  obdurate.] 
Dorval,  Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Entering,  his  manuscript  in  hand.] 
Has  Gluck  come? 

SOPHIE 
Not  yet. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
The  Abbe  thinks  very  well  of  my  fifth  act. 

SOPHIE 
You  mean  his  eyes  are  still  open? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What,  dear? 

SOPHIE 
We  must  act  swiftly. 


128 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Misunderstanding  her.] 
Not  with  my  play.     It  calls  for  majesty. 

SOPHIE 

Not  with  your  masterpiece,  my  Dorval,  but  with 
facts.  Here,  take  this  letter  and  my  coach.  [She 
hands  him  the  letter  supposed  to  have  been  written 
for  MARIE  ANTOINETTE  and  then,  fairly  pushing 
him  towards  the  door.]  You  must  ride  post  haste 
to  Rue  Sainte  Margarette. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Looking  at  his  manuscript.] 
But  what  of  my  tragedy? 

SOPHIE 

Later,  the  rest  of  your  life  for  tragedy,  my  poet. 
Now  we  have  a  comedy  to  play.  Here,  take  this 
letter,  it's  from  the  Court. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What? 

SOPHIE 

A  matter  of  grave  moment,  Dorval,  to — to — 
ah  well,  no  matter.  Kill  my  horses  if  you  must 
but  in  half  an  hour  reach  the  Barracks  Rue  Sainte 
Margarette  and  if  you  value  Sophie's  love  do  not 
come  back  alone. 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  129 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

[Sadly,  looking  at  his  manuscript.] 
But  it  was  just  at  this  moment  that  my  two  lovers 
meet  alone  in  the  garden. 

SOPHIE 

Well,  let  them  make  all  the  love  they  want  to  in 
my  coach.  Fly,  fly!  There's  to  be  a  marriage 
and  you'll  bring  back  the  bridegroom. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Mystified.] 

Yes,  dear,  but  I  assure  you  I  had  more  rest  in 
prison  than  since  I've  been  back  here  with  you. 
Only  home  half  an  hour  and  you  already  bundling 
me  off  in  your  coach  to  bring  back  a  bridegroom. 
I'm  a  man  of  thought,  Sophie.  I'm  patient,  very 
patient,  but  remember  it  was  the  last  straw  that 
broke  the  camel's  back. 

SOPHIE 

Why,  I  don't  think  my  Dorval  has  the  faintest 
resemblance  to  a  camel,  though  I  know  you  love 
them. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Just  the  same,  dear,  remember  that  last  straw. 

SOPHIE 

I  do  and  perhaps  the  very  straw  that  broke  the 
camel's  back  may  have  been  the  one  that  showed 


130 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

the  way  the  wind  was  blowing.  Before  evening, 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised,  if  there  would  be  a  little 
tempest  here.  Do  not  begrudge  your  Sophie  her 
bit  of  straw.  Go,  go,  for  our  sake,  Dorval,  for 
your  Sophie's  sake. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

I'll  go.  [He  glances  at  the  letter.]  Rue  Sainte 
Margarette.  But  you  women  have  so  little  fore 
thought.  How  will  I  ever  be  able  to  think  of  lovely 
lines  for  my  tragedy  rumbling  along  in  your  coach? 
But  for  your  sake,  Sophie  dear.  Rue  Sainte  Mar 
garette. 

[And  he  exits.] 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[Very  pleasantly,  looking  after  him.] 
Madame,  I  share  with  you  your  adoration  of  the 
quaint  eccentricities  of  the  Count  de  Lauraguais. 
He  is  a  credit  to  his  King  and  France.     You  will 
permit  me  to  drink  to  the  King? 

[And  he  does  so.] 

) 
SOPHIE 

[Singing  a  few  notes.] 
Tra-la-la-la.     Still  there,  still  there. 
[THE  SECOND  LACKEY  enters.] 

THE  SECOND  LACKEY 

Madame,  Mile.  Guimard  has  arrived  for  the  re 
hearsal, 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 131 

SOPHIE 

Have  her  wait.  I  am  not  yet  ready.  I  will 
ring. 

[THE  SECOND  LACKEY  goes  out.] 

SOPHIE 

[To  THE  FIRST  LACKEY.] 

I  have  here  a  letter  to  be  delivered,  of  the  very 
greatest  importance. 

[She   hands   him   VIVIENNE'S    letter.     He 
reads  the  address  and  looks  up,  surprised.] 

SOPHIE 
You  quite  understand? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
[With  a  knowing  eye.] 
I  do. 

SOPHIE 

Very  well,  see  that  it  is  delivered,  but  not  before 
the  hour  is  up. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame  is  looking  a  bit  ahead?  Ah,  what  a 
privilege  to  live  in  your  house,  Madame,  but  if 
Madame  will  permit  me  I  should  suggest  at  least  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  this  letter  is  delivered.  It 
will  take  the  Count  at  least  half  an  hour  to  reach 
the  barracks  with  the  cobble-stones  of  Paris  in  the 
dreadful  state  they  are. 


132  SOPHIE  [Acx  II 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  you  are  right. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame  has  something  up  her  sleeve?  When 
the  ice  is  thin  Madame  thinks  it  just  as  well  to  have 
many  little  rafts  about. 

SOPHIE 

The  simile's  a  little  mixed,  but  somewhere  in 
the  nest  the  truth  lies  hidden.  Now  show  the  sol 
diers  into  the  library.  You  understand  your  or 
ders? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Perfectly,  Madame. 

[And  with  a  deep  bow  he  goes  out.] 

SOPHIE 

[Singing  a  few  notes.] 
La-la.     Still  there,  still  there. 

[She  goes  over  to  the  door  and  calls  in  to 
THE  ABBE.] 

SOPHIE 
Monseigneur,  Monseigneur! 

THE  ABBE 

[Entering.] 

Monseigneur?  Madame,  if  I  stay  long  enough 
in  your  house  I  may  be  Pope. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 133 

SOPHIE 

Who  knows?  Why  not?  I  am  Sophie  Arnould, 
but  at  least  you  will  stay  long  enough  to  indulge  in 
one  of  the  holy  sacraments.  You  will  perform  a 
marriage. 

THE  ABBE 
[In  amazement.} 

A  marriage? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  at  midnight.     A  marriage.     The  most  un 
imaginative  thing  that  has  ever  happened  in  So 
phie's  house,  but  circumstances  alter  faiths. 
[THE  THIRD  LACKEY  enters.] 

THE  THIRD  LACKEY 

Madame,  the  Chevalier  Gluck  and  Mme.  Levas- 
seur  have  arrived  for  the  rehearsal. 

SOPHIE 

I  am  not  ready  yet.     I  will  ring. 
[THE  LACKEY  exits.] 

SOPHIE 

[Again  singing  a  phrase.] 
Am  I  in  voice? 

THE  ABBE 

Divine.  But  do  you  know  that  several  gen 
darmes  have  just  come  into  the  library? 


134  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 
Yes.     Have  I  ever  sung  better? 

THE  ABBE 
It  is  the  voice  of  the  angels. 

SOPHIE 
Were  you  surprised  to  see  the  soldiers? 

THE  ABBE 

[His  hands  lifted.] 

Madame,  in  your  house  I  am  prepared  to  see  the 
devil  himself  come  down  the  chimney. 

SOPHIE 

In  case  he  does  I  have  you  here  as  host,  your  Rev 
erence.  Tell  the  gendarmes  to  be  nice  and  quiet 
during  the  singing.  [And  then,  and  indeed  she 
wants  to  know.]  They  are  good,  strong  fellows? 

THE  ABBE 
They  are,  my  child. 

[And  he  exits  into  the  library.] 

SOPHIE 

[Giving  the  bell-rope  a  violent  pull.] 
Now  I  am  ready  for  the  devil,  for  the  Austrian 
Ambassador  and  the  celestial  strains  of  Gluck. 

[She  arranges  the  head-dress  in  her  hair. 
She  goes  over  to  the  harpsichord  and  is  lean- 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 135 

ing  against  it  in  languid  beauty  when  GLUCK, 
ROSALIE  LEVASSEUR  and  GUIMARD  enter.] 

SOPHIE 
[Bowing.] 

Chevalier,  ladies,  welcome. 
[They  all  bow.] 

GLUCK 

[An  irritable  genius  and  a  pompous  gen 
tleman  as  he  leans  over  to  kiss  her  hand.] 
Madame,  I  hope  your  voice  is  not  as  veiled  as 
your  hair.     What  is  that,  may  I  ask? 
[And  he  points  to  the  crescent.] 

SOPHIE 
The  head-dress  of  Diana. 

GLUCK 
And  what  have  head-dresses  to  do  with  Gluck? 

SOPHIE 

Why,  I  don't  know  how  they  affect  you.     I'll  ask 
Rosalie. 

ROSALIE 
Sophie,  Sophie. 

[She  attempts  to  hide  her  embarrassment  be 
hind  a  laugh.] 

SOPHIE 

Maestro,  the  moon  is  the  symbol  of  Diana.     Is 
not  your  heroine  a  priestess  of  Diana? 


136 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

Madame,  do  you  think  the  simple  grandeur  of 
my  music  calls  for  all  this  costuming? 

SOPHIE 

Perhaps  not.     When  genius  demands  it  I  can 
move  the  moon. 

GLUCK 

You  French  have  a  way  of  saying  nothing  as 
though  it  were  something. 

SOPHIE 

Do,  all  of  you  sit  down  whilst  I  arrange  the 
planets. 

[She  takes  the  veils  and  the  moon  from 
her  hair.] 

ROSALIE 
My  Sophie  is  in  a  playful  mood  tonight. 

SOPHIE 

Why  not?     My  voice  was  never  better.      [Then 
to  GUIMARD.]     Marie,  where's  Abigalette? 

GUIMARD 
Signer  Tortolini  has  called  her  for  rehearsal. 

[GLUCK  has  taken  his  seat  at  the  harpsi 
chord  and  begins  turning  over  the  sheets  of 
the  score  of  Iphigenia  in  Aulis.] 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 137 

SOPHIE 

[To  GUIMARD.] 

Then  my  poor  little  friend  will  not  hear  me  sing 
tonight? 

ROSALIE 
But  tomorrow  evening,  dear. 

SOPHIE 

No,  Rosalie.  When  Sophie  sings  there  is  no  one 
allowed  standing  in  the  wings. 

GLUCK 
Madame,  I  am  ready. 

SOPHIE 

[Still  to  ROSALIE.] 
Neither  the  King  nor  the  ladies  of  the  ballet. 

GLUCK 

Madame,  if  you  think  that  Gluck  has  come  here 
to  talk  about  the  ladies  of  the  ballet  you  are  very 
mistaken.  But  I  understand  you  Parisiennes. 
What  is  an  opera  to  you  but  a  period  in  which  you 
are  bored  to  death  until  the  dancers  appear? 
Should  not  music  be  something  more  divine  than 
an  excuse  for  fifty  ballerinas  standing  on  their 
toes  and  grinning? 

SOPHIE 

What  would  you  have  them  do,  Maestro,  when 
they  are  so  unhappy? 


138 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

I  have  not  come  here  from  Vienna  to  be  told  why 
the  ballet  is  unhappy. 

SOPHIE 

You  know.  Maestro,  it  is  because  they  must 
dance  and  cannot  sing  your  lovely  melodies. 

GLUCK 

So,  so,  you  French  have  a  mixed  up  way  of 
saying  things,  but  sometimes  you  are  right.  [He 
plays  a  few  chords  on  the  harpsichord.]  And 
your  voice,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
Waiting  to  do  justice  to  your  art. 

GLUCK 

My  art,  my  sacred  art.  What  does  Paris  know 
of  my  art?  I  bring  you  my  genius,  my  beautiful 
legato  melodies,  my  music  which  is  divinely  sad, 
my  pathos  which  is  divinely  musical,  my  phrases 
which  do  not  fill  the  air  with  meaningless  nothing 
ness,  but — 

SOPHIE 

[Clearing  her  throat.] 
Ahem,  ahem. 

GLUCK 
[Continuing.] 
My  music,  which  is  not  the  reason  for  a  prima 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 139 

donna's  pricking  the  heights  of  heaven  with  florid 
trivialities  but  which  in  its  nobility  shall  tell  of  the 
soul  and  its  passions  and  its  pains.  Madame,  what 
does  Paris  know  of  this?  Nothing!  But  after  to 
morrow  evening  Paris  will  know  what  beauty  is. 
The  flood  gates  will  be  let  loose.  On  my  Iphi- 
genia  will  be  founded  a  new  school  of  opera,  an 
opera  [and  now  he  speaks  the  tremendous  climax} 
an  opera  which  some  day,  perhaps,  will  need  no 
ballet. 

ROSALIE 

[Starting  up  in  wonder.} 
What,  no  ballet? 

GLUCK 

Yes,  Madame,  sit  down,  no  ballet.  Tomorrow 
night  I  will  begin  the  future.  Tomorrow  night 
Paris  will  hear  the  grandeur  that  is  Gluck. 

SOPHIE 

Why,  you're  not  doing  yourself  justice. 
[He  again  sounds  a  few  chords.} 

SOPHIE 

I  am  ready.  Where  shall  we  begin.  [She 
leans  over  his  shoulder.]  Here.  [She  reads  the 
words  from  the  score.]  "The  vows  with  which 
these  people  honour  me." 

[GLUCK  starts  playing  the  accompaniment 
to  the  melody,  but  suddenly  he  stops.] 


140 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

What's  this?  Your  instrument  is  a  tone  off 
pitch.  You  have  studied  this  aria  in  C.  Well,  we 
shall  sing  it  in  D.  I  will  transpose.  Gluck  must 
not  be  off  pitch  though  everything  else  in  Paris  is. 
Are  you  ready,  Madame?  It  is  very  warm,  you 
will  excuse  me.  I  may  take  off  my  coat? 
[He  gets  up.] 

ROSALIE 

[Rushing  forward] 
Give  it  to  me,  Maestro. 

SOPHIE 

[Aside  to  ROSALIE.] 
Why  don't  you  take  off  his  shoes  for  him? 

GLUCK 

My  shoes?     Afterwards  perhaps,  Madame,  but 
as  yet  I  am  not  so  warm. 

[He  sits  down  again  at  the  instrument  and 
strikes  a  chord] 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  majestic  bow.] 
Behold  the  virginal  priestess  of  Diana. 

ROSALIE 

Ah,  what  an  actress  our  Sophie  is!     But  I  too 
have  had   my   triumphs.     The    other   evening   in 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 141 

Rousseau's  opera  when  I  sang  the  part  of  the  lad 
Colin,  half  of  the  audience  thought  I  was  a  boy. 

SOPHIE 

[Oh,  so  cooingly.] 
And  the  other  half  knew  you  weren't,  dear. 

ROSALIE 
What? 

SOPHIE 
[To  GLUCK.] 
I  am  waiting,  Maestro. 

GLUCK 

Silenzio!     Madame, — I  will  play  the  opening 
phrase.     Now,  Madame. 

[He  plays  the  first  few  measures  of  the 
aria.  SOPHIE  with  parted  lips  is  about  to 
sing  when  at  this  moment  there  is  a  knock  at 
the  door.'] 

SOPHIE 

[Involuntarily.'] 
Not  yet!     Not  yet! 

GLUCK 
What  is  it? 

SOPHIE 

[Her  voice  is  a  little  unsteady.] 
Perhaps  His  Excellency. 


142  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

[The  knock  is  repeated.     It  is  from  the 
door  of  the  library.] 

SOPHIE 

I  thought  it  was  too  soon  for  him.  It  is  His  Rev 
erence.  Come  in. 

[THE  ABBE  enters.] 

GLUCK 

Madame,  are  we  to  rehearse  or  are  you  giving  a 
reception? 

THE  ABBE 
With  your  permission,  Maestro? 

GLUCK 
Yes,  with  my  permission. 

THE  ABBE 

It  is  impossible  to  obtain  tickets  for  the  premiere 
tomorrow  evening,  Maestro. 

GLUCK 

It  has  been  impossible  to  obtain  tickets  for  four 
weeks  back. 

THE  ABBE 

Therefore,  Maestro,  I  should  be  deeply  grateful 
if  you  would  grant  me  the  privilege  this  evening 
of  hearing  Madame  Arnould  sing. 

GLUCK 
Of  hearing  Madame  Arnould  sing.     On  all  sides 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 143 

I  hear  nothing  but  Madame  Arnould,  Madame  Arn- 
ould.  Is  it  no  privilege,  I  ask  you,  to  also  hear  the 
music  which  is  Gluck's?  What  is  the  divinest 
singing  when  there  is  nothing  to  sing?  Padre,  my 
opera  is  not  like  your  Te  Deums,  where  the  less 
heard  the  holier  it  sounds.  What  is  a  voice  even 
so  divine — sometimes — as  Madame  Arnould's 
without  sentiments  to  give  it  wings?  Bah! 
Madame,  is  there  some  one  else  who  will  come  in  to 
interrupt  us?  It  is  very  warm,  you  will  permit 
me  to  take  off  my  vest?  [He  attempts  to.]  What, 
what,  this  verdammte  buckle  is  too  tight. 

SOPHIE 

Rosalie,  dear,  the  buckle  is  too  tight.     Come, 
dear,  practice  makes  perfect.     Come,  come. 

ROSALIE 
I  will  help  you,  Maestro. 

THE  ABBE 

[Quickly  aside  to  SOPHIE  as  ROSALIE  is 
busy  with  GLUCK.] 

Madame,  the  gendarmes  beseech  you  to  allow 
them  to  come  in  and  hear  you  sing. 

SOPHIE 

The  darlings,  leave  the  door  a  little  open.     I 
adore  soldiers. 

[By  now  the  vest  is  off  and  GLUCK  is  back 
at  the  harpsichord.] 


144  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

Now,  Madame,  we  will  begin.  You  will  follow 
me. 

SOPHIE 

What?  [Then  petulantly.]  I  will  do  no  such 
thing.  You  will  follow  me. 

GLUCK 

[Getting  up  in  anger.] 
What  is  that? 

SOPHIE 

Maestro,  it  is  too  late  to  begin  discussing  that. 
I  told  you  at  the  first  rehearsal  and  last  night  at 
the  last  that  if  I  consented  to  create  your  Iphigenia 
for  you  that  the  interpretation  must  be  left  to  me. 
If  I  am  to  interpret  it  I  must  be  followed.  You 
are  right,  Maestro,  a  great  singer  is  nothing  with 
out  something  great  to  sing,  but  it  is  also  true  that 
the  divinest  music  is  still  diviner  when  divinely 
sung. 

GLUCK 

Madame,  you  will  excuse  me.  It  is  very  warm. 
[He  takes  off  his  wig.]  See  [pointing  to  the 
score] ,  I  have  marked  each  phrase,  each  swell,  each 
pianissimo;  what  more  is  there  needed,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
The  moment's  inspiration  and  my  art. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 145 

GLUCK 

[Mopping  his  brow.] 

But  it  is  thus  that  Iphigenia  is  to  be  sung  and 
only  thus. 

SOPHIE 

[Tenderly,  patting  him  on  the  cheek.] 
Papa  Gluck  may  have  created  his  Iphigenia,  but 
unless  I  know  my  mamma, — and  I  think  I  do, — he 
did  not  create  his  Sophie. 

GLUCK 
[In  a  rage.] 
Madame,  I  have  heard  enough. 

SOPHIE 

[With  the  gentlest  of  composure."] 
Now  I  see  why  you  are  the  greatest  composer 
that  ever  lived. 

GLUCK 

[Slightly  mollified  in  spite  of  his  heat.] 
What  is  that? 

SOPHIE 
You  have  so  much  temper  to  turn  into  beauty. 

ROSALIE 
Why,  what  a  charming  idea. 

SOPHIE 

Remember  it,  dear.     Often  a  memory  serves  the 
place  of  wit.      [Then  to  GLUCK.]     Come,  Maestro. 


146 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

[Her  arm  is  about  him  as  she  leads  him  back  to 
the  harpsichord.]  Don't  worry,  Maestro,  we  will 
never  be  more  than  a  measure  apart.  Your  So 
phie  is  so  ingenious. 

GLUCK 

[Glaring  at  her.] 

Madame,  Madame  Levasseur  has  also  studied  the 
role  of  Iphigenia.  Perhaps  there  still  is  time. 

ROSALIE 
[Eagerly.] 
Yes,  yes. 

SOPHIE 

But  there  isn't,  Rosalie.  The  premiere  will  be 
tomorrow  night  and  Sophie  will  sing.  There, 
there,  genius  is  so  sensitive,  there.  [She  is  patting 
GLUCK'S  very  bald  head.]  Maestro,  your  head  is 
as  smooth  as  your  recitative.  [She  has  forced 
him  to  sit  down.]  Now  your  Sophie  will  sing  as 
sweetly  as  a  seraphim  who  has  not  yet  learnt  the 
ennui  of  paradise. 

[And  she  is  waiting  next  to  the  harpsichord 
with  a  celestial  light  in  her  eyes.] 

GLUCK 

[Again  sounding  the  opening  phrase.] 
For  the  last  time,  silenzio.     Madame  is  ready, 


yes? 


[They  are  all  leaning  forward  listening. 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  147 

GLUCK  plays  a  few  measures,  when  suddenly 
the  door  bursts  open  and  MLLE.  HEINEL,  in 
her  ballet  costume  and  all  aflutter  like  an 
aspen  in  a  morning  wind,  comes  rushing  in.] 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Breathlessly.] 

Darling,  I  couldn't  live  and  not  hear  you  sing 
tonight.  I  was  afraid  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  come. 
At  the  last  moment  the  rehearsal  was  called.  I 
went  to  it  but  I  promised  Signor  Tortolini  if  he 
would  let  me  off  for  just  half  an  hour  that  I  would 
give  him  something  very,  very  unique. 

SOPHIE 
I  hope  so,  dear.     I  hope  so. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Then  I'm  not  too  late.  Oh,  I'm  so  excited.  I 
drove  through  Paris  as  though  that  terrible  man 
Attila  were  at  my  heels. 

ROSALIE 

[Curiously  leaning  forward.] 
Attila,  and  who  is  he? 

SOPHIE 
The  only  man  in  Paris  you  do  not  know. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Embracing  SOPHIE.] 
Darling,  I'm  so  glad  I'm  in  time.      [Then  lightly 


148  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

over  SOPHIE'S  shoulder  to  GLUCK.]     Good  evening, 
Maestro. 

GLUCK 

[His  irritation  at  the  sizzling  point.] 
Madame  Arnould,  I  came  here  this  evening  to 
rehearse  and  not  to  waste  half  an  hour  whilst  my 
chaste  Iphigenia  embraces  a  verrilckte  ballerina. 

ROSALIE 
You  are  right.  Chevalier,  this  is  too  much. 

SOPHIE 

[Pulling  the  bell-rope.'] 

Can  I  help  it  if  Paris  is  so  eager  to  hear  me  sing, 
but  that  is  an  emotion,  Rosalie,  which  you  cannot 
understand.  [Then  to  GLUCK.]  Now,  Maestro, 
you  mustn't  interrupt  me  again. 

[THE  SECOND  LACKEY  enters.] 

SOPHIE 

[To  THE  LACKEY.] 

See  that  no  one  is  admitted  except  His  Excel 
lency.  [THE  LACKEY  exits.  SOPHIE  has  gone 
over  to  THE  ABBE  and  her  voice  is  despondent.] 
His  Excellency. 

THE  ABBE 
[Low,  to  SOPHIE.] 

Perhaps  there  is  no  cause  for  alarm.  Matters 
of  State  may  have  detained  him. 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE 149 

SOPHIE 

[Hopelessly,  though  hoping.] 
Perhaps,  perhaps. 

GLUCK 

What  is  this,  Madame?     Am  I  to  be  kept  waiting 
whilst  you  indulge  in  your  confessions? 

SOPHIE 

[Like  a  good  child  enjoying  the  nice  new 
ness  of  a  naughty  moment.] 
No,  Chevalier,  you  would  have  to  wait  for  seven 
lives  whilst  I  absolve  the  sins  of  one. 
[She  begins  to  laugh.] 

GLUCK 

[Flinging  the  score  on  to  the  floor.] 
We  will  not  sing  tonight! 

SOPHIE 

[Putting  the  book  back  on  the  rack.] 
My  composer,  it  was  you  who  insisted  on  re 
hearsing  and  not  me.     If  you  do  not  wish  to,  well — 

GLUCK 

[Again  mopping  his  brow  and  sitting  down 
distracted.] 
I  have  suffered  the  patience  of  a  Spartan. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  smile.] 

To  create  the  tragedy  of  Troy,  and  now  your  Gre 
cian  is  waiting.     The  triumvirate's  complete. 


150 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

[His  fingers  on  the  keys  as  in  the  painting 
of  Duplessis.] 

Tomorrow  for  the  first  time  Paris  shall  hear  my 
music.  For  the  first  time  France  will  know  the  dif 
ference  between  real  inspiration  and  these  ridicu 
lous  rules  of  counter-point.  What  do  I  know  of 
rules  but  to  break  them?  Am  I  not  Gluck? 

SOPHIE 

[Banishing  all  doubt.] 
I  think  you  are,  Maestro. 

GLUCK 

So,  let  us  have  no  more  chatter.  Let  us  have 
music, — music  which  tells  and  teaches  all  though  it 
speak  no  word  nor  sentence.  Let  us  have  music, 
the  divine  music  of  Gluck  which  is  not  written  for 
the  ear  but  for  the  heart.  Madame  is  ready? 

[He  again  plays  the  first  nine  measures  of 
the  aria  in  Act  I9  then  he  lifts  his  hand  and  is 
about  to  begin  again.  SOPHIE  has  taken  a 
deep  breath.  The  silence  hangs  upon  the 
beauty  about  to  be  born,  but  alas,  at  this  sec 
ond  a  sound  of  voices  is  heard  in  the  hall  and 
the  next  moment  His  Excellency,  the  Austrian 
Ambassador,  is  shown  in  by  two  of  the  Lack 
eys.  D'ARGENTEAU  is  a  typical  diplomat  of 
the  old  school  whose  breath  of  life — that  is, 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 151 

all  that  is  left  to  him — lingers  along  in  puffs 
of  stiff  formality.  Everybody  on  the  stage 
with  deep  ceremony  bows  very  low  to  him  and 
GLUCK  has  risen  and  is  standing  at  the  harp 
sichord.} 

SOPHIE 

[Behind  her  hand  to  ROSALIE.] 
Don't  bow  so  low.     You  may  never  be  able  to 
get  up. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[With  great  dignity,  acknowledging  the  sal 
utations.} 

Ladies,  Christophe,  Abbe  de  Voisenon.  The  re 
hearsal  has  already  begun? 

SOPHIE 

[Smiling  at  GLUCK.] 
Yes,  several  times,  but  we  can  begin  again. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Good!  Then  I  am  still  in  time.  It  is  an  hon 
our,  Chevalier,  this  happy  conclusion  and  this  glo 
rious  combination.  [He  begins  coughing  faintly.} 
Arnould  and  Gluck.  Gluck  and  Arnould.  Two 
perfect  halves  of  a  still  more  perfect  whole.  An 
alliance  of  loyalty  and  art.  France  and  Austria. 
Austria  and  France.  Two  complements  complet 
ing  beauty.  Composer  and  singer.  Creator  and 
musician.  Austria  and  France. 


152 SOPHIE, [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[Echoing  his  tone.] 

Composer  and  creator,  singer  and  musician,  Aus 
tria  and  France.  I  hope  your  Excellency  doesn't 
get  dizzy  from  this  perfect  balancing. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame  is  in  a  playful  mood  tonight. 

SOPHIE 
Never  more  so,  Your  Excellency. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Bending  over  to  kiss  her  hand.] 
I  suppose  as  usual  tonight  your  voice  is  the  rival 
of  the  nightingale's? 

SOPHIE 

I  do  not  yet  know,  both  I  and  the  nightingale 
find  it  very  difficult  to  sing  with  some  one  holding 
our  hand. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[With  a  wheezy  little  laugh.] 
Good,  good,  I  am  a  diplomat.     A  hint  is  suffi 
cient. 

[He  again  kisses  her  hand.] 

SOPHIE 

That  is  the  second  time  you  have  kissed  my  fin 
gers. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
It  is  charming  to  repeat  what  is  charming. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 153 

SOPHIE 

But  I  assure  you  it  is  quite  unusual  twice  in  the 
same  evening. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Insinuatingly.] 
Madame  has  perhaps  not  received  my  letter? 

SOPHIE 

[A  little  startled.] 
Yes. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

These  then  are  tiny  hints  and  signs.  [He  is 
oggling  her  slyly.]  Signals  and  suggestions.  I 
hope  it  is  all  as  clear  and  delightful  to  Madame  as 
it  is  to  me? 

[He  bows.] 

SOPHIE 
Quite. 

[She  bows  in  return.] 

GLUCK 

Begging  your  Excellency's  pardon,  but  whilst 
you  and  Madame  are  so  busy  bowing  to  each  other 
my  music  is  freezing  to  death  on  the  harpsichord. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[With  another  brave  little  giggle.] 
Excellent.     Excellent.     Let  me  no   longer  de 
tain  Iphigenia  from  her  devotions.     Madame,  do 


154  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

you  know  that  the  Dauphin  and  Dauphiness  and  all 
the  Court  will  be  present  at  the  premiere  tomorrow 
night? 

SOPHIE 
[Carelessly.] 
Of  course,  why  not? 

ROSALIE 

[And  it's  her  moment.] 

All,  your  Excellency?  But  they  say  that  the 
King — 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Ah  yes,  you  are  right.  His  Majesty  and 
Madame  Du  Barry  who  has  a  composer  of  her 
own  and  not  an  Austrian,  begging  your  pardon, 
Christophe — Madame  Du  Barry  and  His  Majesty 
will  absent  themselves. 

SOPHIE 

Seeking  felicity  the  while.  Dear  Du  Barry,  how 
fond  she  is  of  Shakespeare.  So,  they  refuse  to 
come  tomorrow  night?  [And  for  a  moment  her 
voice  is  angry,  then  with  purling  sweetness.]  Ah 
well,  what  matter?  We  will  content  ourselves 
with  the  presence  of  the  proper  heirs  to  the  throne 
rather  than  with  that  of  one,  whose  heirs  if  she 
ever  have  any  will  be  improper. 

ROSALIE 
[Aghast.] 
For  God's  sake,  Sophie,  what  are  you  saying? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 155 

Do  you  dare  speak  that  way  of  His  Majesty  and — 
[She  looks  about  her,  afraid  to  go  on.] 

SOPHIE 

[Lightly.] 

Darling,  the  carroty  Du  Barry  knows  that  Sophie 
doesn't  love  her. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  softly,  softly.  Amongst  friends  this 
sort  of  chatter  may  be  pleasant  but  amongst  cour 
tiers,  well — 

SOPHIE 

I  know  that  the  ears  of  Saint-Florentin  are  al 
ways  listening,  but  this  evening,  Excellency,  we  are 
friends — only  friends. 

[And  behind  the  general  appellation  is  the 
particular  message  directed  at  him.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Looking  at  her  through  his  monocle.] 
Only  friends? 

[Then  very  formally  he  again  attempts  to 
kiss  her  hand,  but  she  avoids  the  compliment 
and  goes  over  to  the  harpsichord.] 

GLUCK 
Well,  Madame,  for  the  tenth  time,  are  you  ready? 


156 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[Putting  her  little  handkerchief  on  the  harp 
sichord  beside  her.] 
Why,  Maestro,  I've  been  waiting  for  you. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Taking  a  chair  nearer  to  SOPHIE.] 
With  your  permission,  Chevalier,  from  here  I  can 
hear  and  see  the  better. 

[He  leans  over  and  takes  SOPHIE'S  little 
handkerchief.  She  is  watching  him.] 

GLUCK 

Prompto!     Silenzio!     P'iano!     Piano! 

[SOPHIE  stands  waiting.  GLUCK  plays  a 
few  bars  and  whilst  he  does  so  D'ARGENTEAU 
with  a  ridiculous  look  at  SOPHIE  is  pressing 
her  handkerchief  to  his  lips  with  elaborate 
eloquence.] 

GLUCK 

[Very  low,  all  the  while  playing  the  mu 
sic.] 
Piano, — now, — now. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  sudden  little  scream.'] 
I  cannot  sing! 

GLUCK 
What? 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  157 

SOPHIE 

[With  an  hysterical  little  cough.] 
My  handkerchief,  my  handkerchief! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Handing  it  to  her  with  a  bow.] 
Madame,  you  are  distressed? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  Your  Excellency.  [She  is  tearing  the  hand 
kerchief  to  bits.]  It  is  my  temperament,  my  tem 
perament.  [More  little  screams.]  Oh,  oh,  oh! 

[GuiMARD  and  MLLE.  HEINEL  rush  over  to 
her.] 

GUIMARD 
What  is  it,  Sophie? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

Darling,  darling! 

SOPHIE 

[The  back  of  her  hand  to  her  brow.] 
I  am  a  little  nervous,  that  is  all.      [Then  to 
D'ARGENTEAU.]     Your  presence,  Excellency. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  I  am  moved  that  my  presence  moves 
you. 

SOPHIE 
It  does,  it  does.     Begin  again,  Maestro.      [And 


158  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

now  both  hands  are  tremblingly  lifted  to  her  face.] 
I  am  afraid  that  I  am  a  little  tired. 

GLUCK 
[Sternly.] 
I  know  that  I  am,  Madame. 

ROSALIE 

Let  her  rest  a  moment.  Chevalier.  We  women 
are  so  fragile. 

SOPHIE 

That's  it,  fragile.  [Then  each  time,  weaker.] 
Fragile,  fragile.  [She  attempts  to  sing  a  few 
notes.]  La,  la,  la.  [Then  with  horror.]  My 
voice,  my  voice.  Maestro,  if  you  tire  me  tonight 
perhaps  I  will  not  be  able  to  sing  tomorrow. 

ROSALIE 
[Almost  gaily.] 
What? 

SOPHIE 
[Weakly.] 
Only  perhaps.     Only  perhaps. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Commiseratingly.] 
Sophie,  darling. 

SOPHIE 

[With  tears  on  the  edge  of  her  lashes.] 
What  will  become  of  my  beautiful  legato  style? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 159 

Oh,  how  ruthless  art  is.  We  work  and  work  and 
now,  now  I  must  rest,  I  must  sleep,  Your  Excel 
lency,  twelve  hours,  thirteen  hours,  fifteen  hours. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  if  it  is  as  bad  as  that  I  am  sure  the 
Chevalier — 

GLUCK 

[Stepping  forward.} 
Excellency. 

SOPHIE 
[Weakly.] 

No,  I  will  sing,  but  if  I  do,  tomorrow  your  op 
era  will  not  sound  like  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  but 
Iphigenia  in  hell. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Sophie,  Sophie! 

SOPHIE 

I  will  martyrize  my  soul.  [Then  wearily.] 
Begin,  begin. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 

If  she  sings  now  she  may  burst  a  vessel  in  her 
throat. 

ROSALIE 
Yes. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  look  at  ROSALIE  of  the  most  abject 
tragedy,  her  finger  on  her  throat.] 
Something  is  straining  here. 


160  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Quick,  a  doctor.     Open  the  window. 

GUIMARD 
A  glass  of  brandy. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[With  deep  commiseration.] 
Madame,  I  am  sure  the  Chevalier  will  under 
stand.     Ladies,  I  know  you  will  appreciate  that  un 
der  the  circumstances  it  might  be  better  if  Madame 
and  I  were  left  alone. 

SOPHIE 

[As  though  being  dragged  to  an  altar.] 
Alone?     Oh,  oh. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[To  the  others.] 

Your  presence,  the  excitement,  the  strain  of  the 
premiere  tomorrow,  of  course,  all  this — if  Madame 
and  I  were  left  alone. 

SOPHIE 

[She  is  weeping  now.] 

Some  one,  all  of  you  leave  me  alone.  My  nerves 
are  like  so  many  little  knives  turned  in  against  me. 

GLUCK 
Madame,  you  will  be  better  tomorrow? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 161 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  better  tomorrow. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
Poor,  suffering  genius. 

SOPHIE 

[She  has  now  sunk  into  her  chair  and  is 
leaning  back,  her  hand  upon  her  bosom.] 
Oh,  oh! 

[ROSALIE  rushes  forward  with  an  irresist 
ible  burst  of  affection.] 

ROSALIE 

If  my  Sophie  is  so  ill  her  Rosalie  will  stay  all 
night  with  her. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  sudden  involuntary  cry  of  clarity.] 
No,  no,  not  the  three  of  you. 

GUIMARD 
What? 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
My  darling,  your  mind  is  wandering. 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  wandering. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  you  will  pardon  me  a  moment.     Do 
not  worry,  I  will  come  back. 


162 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[As  though  she  were  in  a  half  remembered 
swoon.] 

Yes,  yes. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Aside  to  GLUCK.] 

Chevalier,  I  am  so  deeply  moved  that  this  should 
happen  in  my  house,  but  women — one  never  knows. 
I  have  never  seen  Madame  like  this  before. 

GLUCK 

Excellency,  I  understand.  [Taking  up  his  wig 
and  his  vest  and  his  coat.]  But  do  you  think  she 
will  be  able  to  sing  tomorrow? 

ROSALIE 
[Hopefully.] 

This  is  perhaps  an  attack  of  that  new  disease  of 
inoculation  that  the  Count  de  Lauraguais  has  im 
ported  from  England  and  for  which  he  was  sent  to 
prison. 

SOPHIE 

[Vaguely.] 
Prison,  inoculation,  De  Lauraguais? — 


GLUCK 

[Deeply  concerned  now.] 
But  if  she  cannot  sing  tomorrow, 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 163 

ROSALIE 
[Oh,  so  anxiously.] 

Yes — yes — 

SOPHIE 
[Faintly.] 
I  will  sing  tomorrow.     I  will  sing. 

[ROSALIE,  THE  ABBE,  GLUCK  and  D'AR- 
GENTEAU  are  now  crowding  solicitously  about 
her.] 

GUIMARD 

Look,  she  is  paler. 

MLLE.  HEINEL 
[Sobbing.] 
How  brave,  how  magnificent  our  Sophie  is. 

SOPHIE 
[Sobbing.] 
Oh,  oh. 

GLUCK 
In  the  morning  I  will  send  a  messenger. 

D'ARCENTEAU 
[Very  formally  to  GLUCK.] 
Chevalier,  I  will  see  you  to  your  coach.      [Then 
to  SOPHIE  with  pleasant  reassurance.]     Madame, 
I  will  be  back,  do  not  disturb  yourself.     I  will  be 
back. 


164  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

GLUCK 

[Deeply  solicitous,  to  SOPHIE.] 
Madame,  I  hope  you  will  rest  well  tonight. 

SOPHIE 

[And  now  the  sound  is  more  of  an  echo  than 
a  voice.] 
Rest  well  tonight? 

GLUCK 
[At  the  door.] 
Madame  Levasseur. 

ROSALIE 

[Low  to  THE  ABBE.     Hardly  able  to  con 
ceal  her  delight.] 

She  is  indeed  very  weak.     I  will  come  back  later 
lo  see  what  I  can  do  for  her. 

GLUCK 

[At  the  door  to  ROSALIE.] 
Madame,  I  am  waiting. 

ROSALIE 

[Aside,    with    a    reassuring   nod    to    THE 
ABBE.] 

It  will  be  all  right.      [Then  whispering  to  him.] 
I'll  surely  come  back. 

[And    she    makes    her  exit    with    MLLES. 
HEINEL  and  GUIMARD.] 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 165 

GLUCK 

[Very  low  at  the  door  to  D'ARGENTEAU.] 
But,  Your  Excellency,  if  she  cannot  sing. 

SOPHIE 

[Faintly,  as  though  from  behind  the  throne 
of  God.] 

I  will  sing.     I  will  sing  tomorrow.     I  will  sing. 

[She  is  now   lying   back   weakly   and  as 

GLUCK  and  D'ARGENTEAU  make  their  exit 

THE  ABBE,  coming  forward,  bends  over  her.] 

THE  ABBE 

[His  hands  clasped  sympathetically  in  front 
of  him.] 
Are  you  stronger,  my  child? 

SOPHIE 
[Weakly.] 
Have  they  all  gone? 

THE  ABBE 
Yes. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  little  more  strength.] 
Close  the  door. 

[THE  ABBE  does  so,  SOPHIE,  watching  him.] 

THE  ABBE 

[Coming  back,  with  deep  concern.] 
My  daughter,  do  you  often  get  these  seizures? 


166  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[Suddenly  sitting  up  in  radiant  health.] 
Of  course,  Your  Reverence,  whenever  necessary. 

THE  ABBE 
What? 

SOPHIE 

Quick,  go  into  the  library.  See  that  my  gen 
darmes  are  given  all  the  wine  they  want  to  drink. 
I  wish  them  mellow  when  it  comes  to  deeds  and 
justice. 

THE  ABBE 

[At  the  door  of  the  library,  quietly  shaking 
his  head.] 
And  who  was  it  called  woman  the  weaker  vessel? 

SOPHIE 
Eve  in  celebration  of  the  fall  of  man. 

[THE  ABBE,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  goes 
into  the  library  and  SOPHIE  is  lying  there 
spent  and  weary  when  D'ARGENTEAU  enters.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  you  are  more  composed? 

SOPHIE 
Thanks,  Your  Excellency. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Your  indisposition  moves  me. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 167 

SOPHIE 
It  is  passing.     I  am  better. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Elaborately.] 

Yes,  the  roses  have  come  back  to  your  cheeks, 
the  dawn  of  health  again  spreads  its  glow  across  the 
white  temples  of  your  brow. 

SOPHIE 

For  heaven's  sake  don't  be  so  poetic.  I'm  still 
very  weak. 

[He  sits  down  near  her.     She  moves  to  the 
far  end  of  the  couch.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Chevalier  Gluck  seemed  very  disturbed  that  you 
could  not  rehearse. 

SOPHIE 

He  might  have  been  more  so  if  I  had.  I  do 
not  think  I  am  in  the  mood  for  singing.  I  am  still 
very  tired,  not  to  say  weak. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
A  glass  of  wine? 

[SOPHIE  makes  a  gesture  of  refusal.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Just  a  sip? 

SOPHIE 

No. 


168 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 
As  you  will. 

[There  is  an  embarrassed  pause.     SOPHIE 
sits  watching  him.] 

SOPHIE 

[Weakly  singing  a  phrase.] 
La,  la.     Yes,  God  be  praised,  it's  coming  back. 
Slowly  but  surely. 

[D'ARGENTEAU  looks  at  her,  coughs  a  little 
and  turns  away.] 

SOPHIE 
Of  what  are  you  thinking? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame — 

SOPHIE 
I  know. 

[He  starts.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame. 

[There  is  a  pause.] 

SOPHIE 
Well? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
What  did  you  think  I  was  thinking  of? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 169 

SOPHIE 

Perhaps  of  the  Japanese  conception  of  Nirvana. 
Why  not,  why  not,  I  ask  you. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Moving  his  chair  a  little  nearer.] 
Madame. 

[He  stops.] 

SOPHIE 

Don't  say  anything  to  startle  me.  You  see  what 
I've  just  come  out  of.  [Her  breath  is  coming  very 
quickly.]  My  heart!  I  am  not  yet  what  you 
would  call  thoroughly  controlled. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Taking  a  book  from  the  table.] 
Madame,  shall  I  read  you  a  few  pages  from 
Rousseau's  Confession? 

SOPHIE 

I  do  not  like  confessions.  They  are  never  true. 
]  shall  never  write  my  own. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
No,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 

Confessions  are  apt  to  be  either  self-pity  or  self- 
praise.  Both  are  prejudices.  I  think  I  will  go  to 
bed. 


170  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Embarrassment      overcoming      his      for 
mality.} 
Madame,  I — 

SOPHIE 
What's  the  matter? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  is  going  to  bed? 

SOPHIE 

Of  course.  Why  not?  People  have  been  going 
to  bed  since  the  beginning  of  time.  Even  Mother 
Eve  went  to  bed  though  I  suppose  she  didn't  have 
to  go  any  place  since  she  was  alone  in  the  world. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  perhaps  you  are  right — but — 

SOPHIE 

Your  Excellency  has  something  on  his  mind? 
Matters  of  state  beyond  a  woman's  comprehension? 
[She  sings  a  phrase.]  Yes,  it  is  coming  back. 
Good,  good. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Your  voice  was  never  more  beautiful. 

SOPHIE 

I  hope  you're  a  judge.  I  think  it  is  a  little 
ragged.  What  I  need  is  rest,  plenty  of  rest.  So 
once  again,  I  bid  Your  Excellency  good-night. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 171 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Getting  up.] 
Madame — 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  sweet  little  smile.] 
Yes,  Your  Excellency? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  will  you  favour  me  by  sitting  down? 

SOPHIE 
[Sitting.] 
Why  not? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Delicately  clearing  his  throat.] 
Madame,  you  received  my  letter? 

SOPHIE 
Yes. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Well? 

[SOPHIE  gets  up,  goes  to  the  harpsichord 
and  takes  up  the  score  of  Iphigenia.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Watching  her.] 
Well,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
Yes. 


172  SOPHIE  [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Sophie. 

[He  gets  up  as  quickly  as  he  can  and  rushes 
towards  her.] 

SOPHIE 

[Pointing  to  the  score.] 
Yes,  here  is  something  that  I  hadn't  seen  before. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[A  little  nearer.] 
Sophie. 

SOPHIE 

[Pointing  to  the  music.] 

Here  without  preparation  Gluck  has  modulated 
into  the  minor. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Yes,  Madame,  but — 

SOPHIE 

And  here  the  accompaniment  takes  up  the 
melody. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Sophie,  love  always  plays  the  accompaniment  to 
life.  [Very  gallantly  he  takes  her  hand.] 
Sophie. 

SOPHIE 

[Very  gently  drawing  it  away.] 
Your  Excellency,  which  do  you  prefer,  harmony 
or  counterpoint? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 173 

D'ARGENTEAU 

These  are  mysteries  which  do  not  concern  a 
statesman. 

SOPHIE 

Why  not?  Can  there  not  be  the  melody  of  jus 
tice  and  the  harmony  of  states? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame's  wit  is  not  too  quick  tonight.     If  you 
think  that  my  letter  suggested  that  I  desired  you  to 
give  me  music  lessons  you  are  greatly  mistaken. 
[He  again  attempts  to  take  her  hand.} 

SOPHIE 

[Drawing  hers  away.] 

It  is  never  too  late  to  begin.  Listen,  this  is  a 
major  chord.  [She  strikes  one.]  Isn't  that  sim 
ple,  noble  and  direct? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  your  chord  is  more  direct  than  you. 

SOPHIE 
Why,  whatever  do  you  mean? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Every  time  I  speak  of  the  letter  that  I  sent  you 
you  speak  of  something  else.  Madame,  I  am  a 
diplomat. 

SOPHIE 
Always,  Your  Excellency? 


174 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

The  evening  is  getting  late  and  whilst  my  mind 
eagerly  drinks  in  your  learned  discourse  on  the 
musical  arts  may  I  delicately  suggest  to  you  that  my 
heart — my  heart  is  trembling  on  the  verge  of  other 
matters.  You  did  receive  my  letter? 

SOPHIE 
Yes. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
And? 

SOPHIE 

[Reticently,  bashfully, — poor  SOPHIE.] 
Sir,  I  am  a  woman.     Will  you  not  allow  me  a 
few  days  to  weigh  the  intention  of  your  words? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
With  all  my  heart,  Madame. 

SOPHIE 

[Glancing  toward  the  library  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  relief.} 

Then  they  and  this  [her  hand  is  lifted]  will  not 
be  needed. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
They,  Madame?     This,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 

My  mind  still  wanders.  [She  gets  up  from  the 
harpsichord.]  Excellency,  I  again  bid  you  good 
night. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 175 

D'ARGENTEAU 
A  moment,  Madame. 

SOPHIE 

Ah,  but  I  am  weary.     We  can  discuss  your  gal 
lant  offer,  shall  we  say,  next  week? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  it  is  beyond  my  power  to  wait  until 
next  week. 

SOPHIE 
Sir! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[With  an  elaborate  bow.] 
It  must  be  this  evening. 

SOPHIE 
This  evening? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Yes,  I  have  had  orders  from  Vienna. 

SOPHIE 

And  what  have  orders  from  Vienna  to  do  with 
me? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
You  have  become  an  affair  of  State. 

SOPHIE 
What? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

You  will  understand  it  better  when  I  explain  to 
you  that  my  Empress — God  spare  her  long  to  us — 


176 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 

[Interrupting  him.} 

Never  mind,  long  or  short  what  difference  does 
it  make? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Very  formally  continuing.} 
That  her  Imperial  Highness,  Marie  Therese,  has 
a  sense  of  rectitude  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
the  world. 

SOPHIE 

In  the  name  of  the  Fiend,  why  are  you  going  so 
far  afield? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

In  order  to  bring  the  truth  to  cover.  Detailed 
news  has  reached  her  Imperial  Highness  as  to  the 
exact  nature  of  our  relationship.  Today  I  have 
received  orders  from  Her  Serene  Highness  that 
without  further  delay,  and  in  order  that  Her  Serene 
Highness'  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude  be  satisfied, 
that  our  relationship,  Madame, — yours  and  mine — 
shall  no  longer  seem  one  thing  and  be  another, 
but— 

SOPHIE 
Well? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

That  it  shall  immediately  become  such  as  every 
honest  and  self-respecting  Parisienne  will  accept 
and  understand. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 177 

SOPHIE 
Good  God! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  need  I  reiterate  that  the  credit  as  well 
as  the  honour  of  my  Empress  and  my  Nation  are 
at  stake? 

SOPHIE 
What  of  my  honour,  mine?     Mine? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  your  reputation,  I  assure  you,  can  be 
nothing  but  advanced  by  the  consummation.  I 
suppose  I  need  say  no  more? 

SOPHIE 

No,  you  need  say  no  more,  but  do  you  suppose 
that  Sophie  Arnould  will  suffer  this  indignity? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Indignity?  May  I  suggest  to  you,  Madame, 
that  Sophie  Arnould  has  already  suffered  the  in 
dignity  of  accepting  some  eight  hundred  thousand 
francs? 

SOPHIE 

A  mere  pittance  for  the  invaluable  prestige  of  my 
name.  If  at  first  you  had  even  hinted  to  me  the 
possibility  of  this  basely  immoral  conclusion,  I 
should  have  flung  your  disgusting  proposal  and 
your  revolting  money  in  your  face. 


178 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  I  am  a  loyal  servant  and  need  I  reas 
sure  you  that  you  are  not  in  the  least  distasteful 
to  me? 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  tone  would  freeze  the  heat  of 
Hell.] 
Indeed? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
These  orders  are  from  the  throne. 

SOPHIE 

From  the  throne?  What  of  it?  Am  I  not 
sovereign  of  the  lyric  stage?  What  do  I  care  for 
the  orders  of  your  horrid  old  Empress  of  Austria? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
{With  fragrant  sarcasm.] 

Then  I  am  to  presume  that  your  assuming  the 
position  of  Mistress  in  my  house  was  purely  a  dis 
interested  act? 

SOPHIE 

[With  illuminating  truth.] 

Not  at  all,  Your  Excellency,  can't  you  see  fur 
ther  than  your  quickly  failing  eyesight  lets  you? 
I  came  to  live  here  at  the  Embassy  because  the 
glamour  of  my  name  and  presence  was  the  one  way 
to  stay  the  tottering  credit  of  your  discredited  ac- 
qounts. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 179 

D'ARGENTEAU 
And  in  return? 

SOPHIE 

In  return,  Your  Excellency,  I  was  assured  the 
role  of  Iphigenia  in  the  divine  opera  of  Maestro 
Gluck.  Tomorrow  night  I  sing  the  role,  the 
kronen  is  itself  again  and  we  are — so  to  phrase  it, 
— quits. 

D'  ARGENTEAU 
And  the  Empress? 

SOPHIE 

[She  is  becoming  superb.] 

The  devil  damn  the  Empress.  Tell  this  to  your 
righteous,  your  very  righteous  Empress.  [And 
then  with  sublime  heroics.]  Tell  her  that  Sophie 
Arnould  is  mistress  in  name  only. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Then  you  refuse? 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  I  refuse. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Sinisterly.] 

I  do  not  think  that  Saint-Florentin  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  the  story. 

SOPHIE 

No,  nor  Paris  either.  Does  Your  Excellency 
imagine  that  I  intend  to  tell  it? 


180 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Then,  Madame,  there  is  but  one  way. 
[He  steps  towards  her.] 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  and  that  is  a  way  you  haven't  thought  of. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
What? 

[He  comes  still  nearer.] 

SOPHIE 

Don't  come  near  me.  I  have  suffered  the  dan 
ger  of  your  presence  far  too  long  already. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  I — 

SOPHIE 

Out  of  a  sense  of  pity  I  have  spared  you  as  long 
as  this.  But  this  last  approach  is  too  much.  It 
tears  the  bandage  from  my  eyes.  It  shows  me  in 
a  blinding  flash  the  awful  menace  that  you  are. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Is  this  a  scene  from  the  opera? 

SOPHIE 

No,  it  is  a  chapter  of  the  truth.  [And  then 
shrinking  back  from  him.]  Do  you  know  your 
self? 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 181 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Misreading  her.] 
For  seven  generations  I  can  trace  my  noble  blood. 

SOPHIE 

Make  it  seventy,  what  difference  does  it  make? 
Don't  you  know  that  the  best  family-trees  bear  the 
most  questionable  fruit?  You  should  give  your 
self  up  before  it  is  too  late.  You  should  walk 
from  this  house  now,  this  very  evening,  and  go  of 
your  own  volition  straight  to  prison. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  have  you  gone  mad? 

SOPHIE 

No,  this  is  the  sanest  moment  of  my  life.  Now 
I  see  that  you  and  all  the  others  like  you  are  a  ter 
rible,  an  unbelievable  danger  to  society. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
What? 

SOPHIE 
You  are  an  assassin! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
An  assassin? 

SOPHIE 

Yes,  a  murderer.  Don't  you  understand  me? 
An  assassin.  One  who  kills. 


182 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

In  the  name  of  God,  Madame,  of  what  do  you 
accuse  me? 

SOPHIE 
Of  attempting  my  life. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Your  life! 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  mine, — mine! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Have  I  held  a  pistol  to  your  brow?  Have  I 
poured  poison  in  your  wine? 

SOPHIE 

Bah,  those  ancient  methods  are  too  simple  and 
too  easily  traced.  You  have  chosen  a  more  cun 
ning  way  to  kill.  By  schemings  more  sinister 
and  subtle  you  and  the  cruel  others  like  you  have 
played  your  murderous  game.  By  devious  and 
deadly  ways  you  have  killed,  killed,  killed! 
[And  now  she  is  mistress  of  the  theme  and  in  full 
flood  of  conviction.]  But  today  your  day  is  over 
and  from  now  your  perfidious  name  shall  ring 
through  time  as  the  first  of  the  devils  who  paid  the 
price  for  his  crime.  You  are  my  assassin!  Inch 
by  inch,  day  by  day  you  have  been  killing  me. 
You  and  the  others  like  you,  here  in  France, 
everywhere,  even  in  the  remotest  interiors  of  the 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 183 

dim  antipodes,  you  are  slaying  people  right  and 
left;  men,  women,  children,  beasts,  all  the  world 
over,  are  dying  every  day  from  the  hidden  prac 
tices  of  such  as  you.  The  dead  are  silent  and  you, 
the  murderers,  still  keep  the  secret.  But  now  I, 
Sophie  Arnould,  the  latest  and  most  famous  vic 
tim,  I,  Sophie,  will  shout  the  hideous  truth  to  all 
the  world  before  it  is  too  late.  You  are  my  as 
sassin!  You  are  boring  me  to  death. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  this  is  fantastic  outrage. 

SOPHIE 

Is  it  thus  you  would  defend  yourself?  No, 
alas,  it  is  the  truth.  Every  day  some  poor  inno 
cent  is  bored  to  death.  The  greatest  doctors  in 
France  will  testify  that  such  deaths  are  happening 
every  day  though  the  poor  wretches  think  it's  been 
the  plague.  It's  time  that  mankind  knew  the  truth, 
terrible  and  blasting  though  it  is.  Do  you  think 
that  I,  Sophie  Arnould,  will  be  the  last  unknown 
sacrifice?  Hereafter  mankind  will  bless  me  for 
the  fact.  I  tell  you,  you  are  boring  me  to  death. 
If  you  stay  here  until  tomorrow  you  will  have  my 
corpse,  my  beautiful  corpse,  on  your  hands. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Very  ironic  now.] 

Perhaps,  Madame,  but  nevertheless,  I  think  that 
I  shall  stay. 


184 SOPHIE    [Acx  II 

SOPHIE 
You  will  stay? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Yes,  Madame,  for  your  eloquence  'has  made  you 
more  beautiful  than  ever. 

[He  steps  closer  to  her.] 

SOPHIE 

[Shrinking  from  him.] 
You  will  stay? 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Yes,  for  who  will  force  me  to  go? 

SOPHIE 
If  not  your  conscience,  then  my  friends. 

[And  she  rushes  over  to  the  door  of  the 
library.] 
My  friends,  my  true,  my  loyal  friends,  come  in. 

D'ARGENTEAU 

What's  this?     Madame,  what  are  you  doing? 
Remember  who  I  am  and  where  you  are. 

SOPHIE 
Too  late,  Sir,  I  have  not  forgotten  either. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Beware,  I  am  Mercy  D'Argenteau. 


ACT  II] SOPHIE         185 

SOPHIE 

And   I,   I   am   Sophie.     My  friends,   come  in, 
come  in! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame,  you  will  regret  this,  if  you  go  too  far. 

SOPHIE 
One  cannot  go  too  far  to  save  one's  life. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
We  shall  see. 

SOPHIE 

Yes,    we    shall    see.     My    friends,    come    in! 
Come  in! 

[And  the  gendarmes  with  the  bottles  in 
their  hands  and  most  of  the  contents  in  their 
stomachs  crowd  in,  followed  by  THE  ABBE.] 

SOPHIE 

[Magnificently,  pointing  to  D'ARGENTEAU.] 
Soldiers  of  France,  I  command  you  to  arrest 
that  man! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[His  rage  mounting.] 

Madame,    I    have    had    enough    of    this    opera 
bouffe. 

SOPHIE 

It's  just  the  beginning,  Your  Excellency.     The 
curtain  has  just  gone  up. 


186 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  you  are  indeed  mad.  This  has  gone 
too  far. 

SOPHIE 

It  goes  still  further.  [Then  with  a  thrilling  ges 
ture,  for  after  all  she  is  the  greatest  actress  in 
France.]  I  have  borne  with  that  man  for  days, 
for  weeks.  Tomorrow  it  will  be  too  late.  There 
stands  my  murderer,  my  assassin. 

[The  soldiers  spring  forward.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Warding  off  the  gendarmes.'] 
In  the  name  of  the  realm  of  Austria  I  command 
you  to  stop! 

SOPHIE 

This  for  Austria!  [And  with  a  snap  of  her  fin 
gers  she  wipes  the  realm  of  the  Hapsburgs  from 
the  earth.]  There  stands  my  murderer,  seize  him! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Stop! 

SOPHIE 
My  murderer,  my  assassin,  seize  him,  seize  him! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Madame,  you  or  France  if  needs  be  will  answer 
for  this  outrage. 

SOPHIE 
Arrest  that  man! 


ACT  II]  SOPHIE  187 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[To  the  soldiers.] 
I  warn  you,  you  will  sweat  in  the  galleys  for  this. 

SOPHIE 
Take  him  away,  take  him  away ! 

[He  is  almost  surrounded  by  the  soldiers 
now.  He  attempts  to  draw  his  sword,  but  one 
of  the  gendarmes  rivets  his  arms  behind  him.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 

It  will  cost  you  your  lives,  if  you  touch  me 
without  a  warrant.  Madame,  command  them  to  re 
lease  me. 

SOPHIE 

[And  sarcasm  stalks  triumphant  in  her 
voice.] 

Release  you!  Choiseul  has  spoken.  The  law's 
the  law.  You  are  doomed! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Choiseul!  What's  that?  Bid  these  brutes  un 
hand  me. 

SOPHIE 

What!  You  call  "brutal"  the  chivalrous  pro 
tecting  strength  of  France? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

Bid  them  unhand  me.  There  is  no  warrant  for 
my  arrest, 


188 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

SOPHIE 
Justice  needs  no  warrant! 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[For  by  this  last  thread  he  hangs  to  save  his 
dignity.] 

The  warrant,  the  warrant!  On  your  life  dare 
touch  me  without  a  warrant! 

SOPHIE 

[For    she    is    ready    as    you    may    have 
guessed.] 

Here  is  the  warrant  then!  [And  from  her 
bosom  she  tears  the  letter  from  which  hangs  the 
ribbon  and  the  seal  of  France.]  Listen,  my  men. 
[And  she  reads.]  "The  testimony  of  Madame  and 
her  learned  physician  has  been  heard  by  me. 
Hereby  I  do  command  the  arrest  of  Mercy  D'Argen- 
teau  as  a  danger  to  the  State  of  France.  Signed 
by  me  this  day,  Choiseul."  [And  now  she  looks 
up  for  the  men  are  ready.]  And  here's  the  seal. 
You  know  the  seal.  [As  indeed  they  do.]  Now 
do  your  duty,  drag  that  murderer  from  my  house. 

D'ARGENTEAU 
[Hoarse  with  anger.] 
Your  house! 

SOPHIE 

Well,  your  house  then,  what  difference  does  it 
make  in  whose  house  you  commit  the  murder? 
[The  soldiers  have  surrounded  him.] 


ACT  II] SOPHIE 189 

D'ARGENTEAU 

[Shrieking  now  for  in  his  rage  all  traces 
of  formality  have  deserted  him.] 
The  Minister  of  Police,   the   Count   de   Saint- 
Florentin  will  hear  of  this  perfidious  conspiracy 
and  base  assault  upon  my  person. 

SOPHIE 
Take  him  away!     Take  him  away! 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Madame  wished  to  spend  the  night  alone. 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  tone  tells  many  things.] 
Alone? 

D'ARGENTEAU 

She  will,  she  will,  alone  in  a  cell  at  Fort  Eveque. 
The  Majesty  of  Austria  has  been  laid  upon.  Wars 
have  been  started  for  less  than  this. 

SOPHIE 

[Topping  his  tone.] 

Take  him  away.  Go!  Go!  You  have  seen  the 
warrant. 

[The  soldiers  are  dragging  him  out.] 

D'ARGENTEAU 
Yes,  I  shall  go  if  needs  be  to  the  King. 

[And  struggling  vainly  with  the  tipsy  sol 
diers  he  is  hustled  from  the  room.] 


190 SOPHIE [ACT  II 

THE  ABBE 

[In  the  deepest  consternation.] 
Madame,   this   offence  is  indeed  a   grave  one. 
That  document  was  forged. 

SOPHIE 

Forged?  Not  exactly — but  part  written  and  by 
me. 

THE  ABBE 
Madame,  I  fear  that  you  have  gone  too  far. 

SOPHIE 
[Quietly.] 
Whatever  do  you  mean? 

THE  ABBE 

He  will  be  avenged,  Madame.  What  if  Saint- 
Florentin  should  come  himself  tonight  with  a  real 
letter  of  arrest? 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  grave  little  nod  of  her  head.] 
You  dear,  worrisome,  old  Reverence,  you,  why 
I'm  expecting  him. 

[And  she  stands  smiling  querulously  and 
sweetly  at  THE  ABBE  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


ACT  III 

Half -past  eleven,  which 
leaves  Sophie  almost  alone. 


191 


ACT  III 

Behold  poor  SOPHIE  in  a  terrible  state  of  agitation 
whilst  the  FIRST  LACKEY  with  most  deferential 
respect,  as  befits  a  lackey,  is  attempting  to  con 
sole  her. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  I  assure  you  everything  will  be  all 
right. 

SOPHIE 

But  where,  where  is  he? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

The  Count  has  perhaps  not  yet  reached  the  Bar 
racks. 

SOPHIE 

What?  Haven't  you  in  the  same  time  been  to 
Fort  Eveque  and  back?  Something  has  gone 
wrong. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Madame,  I  assure  you. 

SOPHIE 
And  besides,  I  told  you  to  drive  slowly. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Madame,  I  rode. 

193 


194 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

[She  is  pacing  up  and  down.] 
What  difference?     What  difference? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

With  me  there  was  but  one  horse  and  begging 
your  pardon,  Madame,  with  two  horses  twice  as 
much  may  happen  as  with  one.  Besides,  Madame, 
I  did  not  have  a  tragedy  on  my  mind. 

SOPHIE 
What? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Well,  you  see,  Madame,  the  Count  may  have  at 
any  moment  stopped  the  coach  because  its  motion 
interfered  with  his  line  of  thought.  That's  the 
chief  reason,  Madame,  that  I  did  not  take  up  liter 
ature  as  my  profession.  I  could  never  be  sure, 
Madame,  when  the  necessities  of  life  would  inter 
fere  with  the  inspirations  or  vice  versa.  Now  with 
the  Count — 

SOPHIE 
[Darkly.] 
He  may  be  dead.     Who  knows? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
I  don't  think  so,  Madame. 

SOPHIE 

Has  he  come  back  to  me  for  but  one  fleeting  mo 
ment,  and  is  he  now  to  leave  me  for  ever?  [She  is 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 195 

over  at  the  picture.]     Dorval!     Dorval!     What  in 
the  name  of  God  can  be  keeping  him? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Some  fancy. 

SOPHIE 
Dorval! 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

You  will  permit  me  to  share  your  admiration 
for  the  Count?  He  must  be  the  most  delightful 
of  companions. 

SOPHIE 

[Tearfully.    She  is  back  at  the  little  table.] 
It  was  here  he  sat  writing  his  tragedy. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

In  spite  of  that,  Madame,  the  most  delightful  of 
companions. 

SOPHIE 

Perhaps  he  has  stayed  at  the  Barracks.  Maybe 
he  has  enlisted  and  is  now  on  his  way  to  all  the  pic 
turesque  dangers  of  America.  He  hasn't  seen  me 
for  several  weeks,  but  still  his  moods,  his  sudden 
caprices — 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Ah,  Madame,  they  are  so  delicious.  Imagine 
the  delightful  society  of  a  companion  whose  next 
act  is  always  a  mystery.  Now  I  can  imagine  the 
Count  about  to  kiss  Madame's  fingers  and — 


196  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

Don't!  What  were  you  saying?  [She  is  at  the 
window  now.}  I  have  not  been  listening. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

That's  what  Madame  thinks,  but  the  truth  is  that 
Madame  has  been  listening,  listening  to  my  harm 
less  babble  and  at  the  same  time  straining  her  ear 
to  hear  the  rumble  of  the  Count's  coach  on  the  cob 
bles,  listening  to  the  young  lady  who  every  now 
and  then  begins  to  weep  in  the  little  blue  room  be 
yond  the  boudoir,  hearkening  to  the  fears  in  her 
heart  and  at  the  same  time  to  the  Abbe  turning  the 
leaves  of  his  book  in  the  library. 

SOPHIE 
Dorval!     Dorval! 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  I  have  observed  that  heaven  always  pro 
tects  the  fantastic  and  the  unsober. 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  as  a  reward  for  their  trying  to  be 
something  different  to  what  a  stupid  fate  would 
have  them  be,  and  in  the  meantime,  what  has  be 
come  of  him?  I  think  you  had  better  ride  to  the 
Barracks  in  the  Rue  Sainte  Margarette. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
If  Madame  so  wishes  it,  but  I  have  no  doubt  that 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  197 

the  Count  has  already  left  the  Barracks.     Some 
thing  may  have  detained  him. 

SOPHIE 
What?     What? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame,  so  many  things  may  have  detained  the 
Count.  He  may  have  stopped  to  write  a  sonnet 
about  the  palace  gardens  in  the  starlight,  or  per 
haps  he  may  have  seen  an  enemy  and  insisted  on 
finishing  a  duel  for  which  he  will  again  be  sent  to 
Fort  Eveque. 

SOPHIE 
Is  that  how  you  would  console  me? 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

With  a  man  of  the  Count's  oddities  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he  didn't  get  back  before  morning 
or  again  if — Madame,  that  is  a  coach,  it  is  stop 
ping  at  the  door. 

SOPHIE 

At  last,  at  last!  Never  again  will  I  let  him  out 
of  my  sight.  One  never  knows  what  he'll  do  and 
where  he'll  do  it.  Without  warning  he  might  sail 
right  off  to  Bohemia.  Dorval!  Dorval!  Yes, 
that's  his  step  on  the  stairs.  [Then  to  THE 
LACKEY.]  Quick,  go  in  to  the  library.  Refill  the 
Abbe's  lamp.  Tell  him  if  he  is  reading  the  Bible 
to  turn  to  Voltaire.  I  want  him  to  keep  awake. 

[And  THE  FIRST  LACKEY,  bowing,  exits.] 


198  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

[At  the  door,  her  arms  wide  open,  ready  to 
greet  an  eternity  in  breeches.] 
Dorval  darling,  Dorval! 
[But  it  is  ROSALIE.] 

SOPHIE 

[Starting  back.] 
A  thousand  devils,  you!!!! 

ROSALIE 

What,  my  dear  Sophie,  you  are  still  a  little  hys 
terical? 

SOPHIE 
What  have  you  come  back  for? 

ROSALIE 

[From  the  bottom  of  her  great,  great  heart.] 
Can  you  ask?     My  Sophie  is  ill.     My  Sophie 
should  not  be  left  alone. 

SOPHIE 
Your  Sophie's  better. 

ROSALIE 

[Shaking  her  head.] 

Oh,  no,  you're  not.     You're  still  pale.     Abiga- 
lette  says  she  never  saw  any  one  as  pale  as  you  were. 

SOPHIE 
What  do  7  care  what  she  says? 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 199 

ROSALIE 

Rosalie  does.  She  says  you  were  as  pale  as  a 
lone  lily  in  the  middle  of  a  lake.  What  the  middle 
of  the  lake  has  to  do  with  it  I  don't  know. 

SOPHIE 

[Her  tiny  toes  tapping  the  floor.} 
Nor  I.     I'm  better,  I  tell  you. 

ROSALIE 
[Determinedly.] 

I  do  not  think  so,  dear.  You  are  very  ill.  Half 
of  Paris  will  be  at  the  curtains  of  your  bed  to 
morrow. 

SOPHIE 

Wondering  who  is  on  the  other  side.  I  am  bet 
ter  I  tell  you.  Now  you  must  drive  home.  Your 
Sophie  is  herself  again. 

ROSALIE 

You  talk  like  all  invalids.  They  always  think 
they're  better,  when  they  are  far  from  well.  [She 
lets  down  a  lock  of  her  hair.] 

SOPHIE 

Take  it  off,  dear,  take  it  off.  But  why  are  you 
doing  that? 

ROSALIE 

In  a  moment  I  shall  put  on  my  little  cap.  I  am 
going  to  stay  all  night. 


200 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  smile  is  not  what  even  a  careless 
optimist  could  call  happy.] 
Are  you,  dear? 

ROSALIE 

Oh,  I  don't  mind.  Sophie,  these  attacks  do  not 
agree  with  you.  You  look  twenty  years  older. 

SOPHIE 
I  may  look  it,  but  you  always  were. 

ROSALIE 
You  look  wretched,  wretched. 

[SOPHIE  goes  over  to  the  mirror  and  begins 
dabbing  her  cheeks  with  rouge.] 

SOPHIE 

There,  that  will  bring  the  roses  back.  Every 
now  and  then  nature  needs  a  helping  hand.  Does 
that  look  better,  dear? 

ROSALIE 

What  difference  does  it  make  when  you're  going 
straight  to  bed? 

SOPHIE 

[Coming  over  to  her.] 

This.  I  will  tell  you  something  in  confidence. 
I  imagine  all  the  male  angels  are  watching  me  when 
I  sleep. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  201 

ROSALIE 

I  told  the  Maestro  I  would  sit  up  all  night  and 
nurse  you. 

SOPHIE 

[And  now  her  tone  is  threatening.] 
The  Maestro  will  be  lonely. 

ROSALIE 
And  your  voice,  dear? 

SOPHIE 

So  it's  that,  is  it?  You  think  it's  gone,  do  you? 
Well,  listen.  [And  she  magnificently  throws  off  a 
bravura  passage  which  might  crown  the  art  of  any 
soprano.]  What  do  you  think  of  that,  eh?  Ros 
alie,  you  could  sell  what's  left  of  your  soul  to  the 
devil  and  never,  my  enormous  step-sister  of  Eu 
terpe,  would  you  be  able  to  sing  like  that. 

ROSALIE 

No?  But  there  are  some  others  who  understand 
my  voice. 

SOPHIE 

None  better  than  I.  You  have  the  most  beauti 
ful  asthma  in  all  of  Europe. 

ROSALIE 
Maestro  Gluck  is  very  worried  about  you. 

SOPHIE 

Go  home  and  console  him  then.  Sing  him  to 
sleep  if  your  talk  is  not  sufficient. 


202 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

ROSALIE 

[Passively  sitting  down.] 
How  nervous  Sophie  seems. 

SOPHIE 

[With  determination.] 
I  am.     I  am. 

[She  is  about  to  pull  the  bell-rope.] 

ROSALIE 

The  longer  I  stay  the  more  I  realize  you  shouldn't 
be  left  alone. 

SOPHIE 
No? 

[And  her  fingers  are  twitching.] 

ROSALIE 

Not  even  your  three  lackeys  could  persuade  me 
to  go.     You  are  very,  very  ill. 

SOPHIE 
Oh,  why  did  I  get  rid  of  all  those  soldiers? 

ROSALIE 
Soldiers? 

SOPHIE 

[Pointing  to  the  library.] 
Yes,  in  there. 

ROSALIE 
Where? 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 203 

SOPHIE 

They  were  strong.  Two  might  have  been  enough 
for  you. 

ROSALIE 

What  are  you  saying?  Darling,  aren't  you  wor 
ried  about  yourself? 

SOPHIE 

In  Paris,  these  days,  it  seems  necessary  to  have 
the  house  full  of  soldiers  if  one  wants  to  spend  the 
night  alone. 

ROSALIE 

You  must  go  in  and  lie  down.  You  have  fever. 
Your  words  mean  nothing. 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  yes,  they  do,  yes,  they  do.  Now  you  must 
go,  Rosalie. 

ROSALIE 

[Shaking  her  head.} 
Oh  no,  no. 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  yes,  yes.  [She  has  taken  the  vase  from  the 
harpsichord.}  I've  never  cared  much  for  this. 
[She  points  to  the  design.}  The  cupids  are  over 
dressed.  I  shouldn't  mind  if  it  were  broken. 
[She  is  weighing  it  threateningly  in  her  hand.} 
Darling,  I  wish  to  be  alone,  and  quickly,  quickly. 


204  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

ROSALIE 

Doctor  Mesmer  is  back  in  Paris.  You  are  very 
excited.  I'll  send  my  coach  for  him. 

SOPHIE 
I  don't  want  Doctor  Mesmer. 

ROSALIE 
Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying? 

SOPHIE 

I  want  no  doctors.  They  are  never  sincere  un 
less  they  carry  a  gun. 

ROSALIE 

But  Doctor  Mesmer.  He  will  bleed  you  or  look 
into  your  eyes  and  presto!  [She  makes  a  gesture 
dismissing  all  earthly  ills.} 

SOPHIE 

I  don't  want  your  Mesmer.  I  sent  him  my  dog 
who  was  ill.  Two  days  after  he  sent  my  Lulu  back 
to  me  quite  cured.  The  next  day  my  Lulu  died. 
But  thanks  to  your  Doctor  Mesmer  she  died  in  per 
fect  health.  You  can  spare  yourself  the  trouble. 

ROSALIE 

You  are  no  longer  in  a  condition  to  judge  for 
yourself.  Before  you  were  white  and  now  you  are 
red. 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  and  in  a  minute  something  is  going  to  be 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 205 

blue  if  you  don't  go.      [She  is  again  suspiciously 
handling  the  vase.]     I  said  I  never  cared  for  this 

bit  of  Sevres. 
\ 

ROSALIE 

[A  little  frightened  now.] 
What  do  you  mean? 

SOPHIE 

What  do  you  think  I  mean.  [The  sound  of  a 
coach.]  Isn't  that  a  coach?  [And  now  she  is  al 
most  adrift  on  her  anger.]  Get  out,  get  out. 

ROSALIE 
But— 

SOPHIE 

[The  floodgates  are  open.] 

You  came  here  hoping  I  was  dead  or  dumb, 
didn't  you?  Well,  go  back  and  tell  your  Maestro 
that  I  am  strong  again  and,  damn  you,  take  this 
with  you  for  a  souvenir! ! ! 

[And  with  a  shriek  of  rage  she  flings  the 
vase  at  ROSALIE'S  head.  It  misses  her,  hits 
the  panel  of  the  wall,  and  falls  splintered  to 
the  floor.] 

SOPHIE 
There,  I'm  a  woman  after  all. 

[The  noise  has  brought  THE  ABBE  rushing 
into  the  room.] 


206  SOPHIE  [Acx  III 

THE  ABBE 
[Alarmed.] 
What  is  it,  my  daughter? 

SOPHIE 

[Calmly,  almost  sweetly,  for  the  moment9 s 
tempest  is  partly  spent.] 

At  pitching  I  was  always  poor,  but  when  it 
comes  to  pitch — ah,  that's  a  different  matter. 
Shall  I  sing  for  you? 

ROSALIE 

[Edging  towards  the  door.] 
Sophie, — 

SOPHIE 

I  might  still  throw  the  mirror  or  one  of  the 
smaller  chairs,  but  I'm  feeling  better. 

ROSALIE 

[Gingerly  approaching  THE  ABBE.] 
Father,  you  and  I  had  better  put  the  poor  trem 
bling  thing  to  bed. 

SOPHIE 

Look  out.  [Now  she  is  growling  like  an  angry 
puppy.]  Oh,  don't  you  come  near  me. 

ROSALIE 

[To  THE  ABBE.] 
You  go  first.     I  don't  think  she's  fond  of  me. 


ACT  III] SOPHIE: 207 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  sudden  cry,  for  an  idea  has  come 
to  her.] 

Tell  her,  Your  Reverence,  what  terrific  danger 
she  runs  in  staying  here. 

THE  ABBE 
[At  a  loss.] 
My  child— 

SOPHIE 
Then  I  must  divulge  the  horror  of  it. 

ROSALIE 
What  is  it — look — she  is  about  to  swoon. 

SOPHIE 

Don't  come  near  me.     Don't  come  near  me  on 
peril  of  your  life. 

ROSALIE 
This  is  more  than  I  expected. 

SOPHIE 
Do  you  know  what  a  leper  is? 

[ROSALIE  emits  a  sudden  shriek.] 

SOPHIE 

Do  you  know  the  terrible  danger  of  coming  near 
a  leper? 

ROSALIE 
Good  God!     Where  is  Doctor  Mesmer? 


208 SOPHIE: [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 
Well,  I  am  not  a  leper. 

THE  ABBE 
My  child,  my  child! 

[He   is  alarmed,  for  SOPHIE   seems  pos 
sessed.} 

SOPHIE 

But  something  more  deadly,  more  terrible  and 
more  new.  [Then  with  a  voice  appallingly  sepul 
chral  in  tone.]  Rosalie,  you  are  in  danger  here. 
[ROSALIE  shrinks  further  back.]  Now  you  shall 
hear  the  torturous  truth.  Tomorrow  you  may  be 
dead. 

ROSALIE 
My  God! 

SOPHIE 
Keep  away,  keep  away! 

ROSALIE 

[Literal  though  lashed  to  the  mast.] 
I'm  not  coming  nearer. 

SOPHIE 
I've  got  that  terrible  new  English  disease. 

ROSALIE 
Oh! 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 209 

SOPHIE 

You  see  before  you  the  first  victim  of  that  awful 
ailment  called  inoculation.  Go,  for  your  own 
sake,  go. 

ROSALIE 

[Trembling  for  all  her  size.] 
Thank  God,  Doctor  Mesmer  is  still  in  Paris. 

[She  is  about  to  rush  from  the  room.  A 
sound  of  a  coach  stopping.] 

SOPHIE 
At  last  it's  he.     Go!     Go! 

[Ds  LAURAGUAIS'  voice  is  heard  in  the  hall.] 

SOPHIE  , 
[Shrieking.] 
Go! 

[ROSALIE  is  about  to  leave  by  the  centre 
door.] 

SOPHIE 

[Pointing  to  the  library.] 

That  way.  Do  not  come  near  me.  That  way, 
through  the  library.  Bathe  swiftly  in  sulphur 
water  and  you  may  live  to  tell  the  tale. 

[And  ROSALIE  precipitately  rushes  off 
through  the  library  while  DE  LAURAGUAIS  en 
ters  at  the  main  door  centre.] 


210 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Smiling  querulously.] 
Is  this  some  quiet  moment  in  the  opera? 

SOPHIE 
The  rehearsal  is  over. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
And? 

SOPHIE 

I've  just  sent  Rosalie  flying.  She  swore  she'd 
spend  the  night  with  me. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Indeed? 

THE  ABBE 
And  this  inoculation? 

SOPHIE 

The  first  thought  that  came  into  my  head.  I  had 
to  get  rid  of  her  somehow. 

THE  ABBE 

[His  hand  lifted  as  though  to  call  down 
the  forgiveness  of  God.] 

And  what  sort  of  a  night  do  you  think  that  poor 
lady  will  spend? 

SOPHIE 

Your  Reverence,  how  should  I  know?  [Then  to 
DE  LAURAGUAIS.]  And  where  have  you  been? 
What  have  you  been  doing? 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 211 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Waking  a  Corporal,  who  woke  a  Sergeant,  who 
woke  a  Lieutenant,  who  spoke  to  a  Captain. 

SOPHIE 
And? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[With  enthusiasm.] 

Sophie,  you've  never  in  your  life  seen  anything 
as  beautiful  as  the  shadows  that  the  moon  casts  in 
the  Barracks  yard. 

SOPHIE 
Shadows? 

[But  she  of  all  should  know  what  shadows 
are  to  him.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Yes.  I  asked  the  Captain's  permission  to  make 
a  little  sketch  by  lamplight  before  I  told  him  what 
I  came  for. 

SOPHIE 
You  did,  darling? 

[And  even  though  she's  angry  she  cannot 
suppress  her  smile.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

It  took  me  half  an  hour  and  then  I  tore  it  up, 
though  Da  Vinci  might  have  been  proud  of  it. 

SOPHIE 
And  in  the  meantime  your  Sophie  has  been  pac- 


212 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

ing  the  floor  in  agony  thinking  that  something  had 
happened. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
It  has. 

SOPHIE 
[Starting  up.] 
He  has  come? 

THE  ABBE 

[Reading  SOPHIE'S  face.] 
Madame,  control  yourself. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Why,  just  what  you  expected. 

SOPHIE 
Who? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
The  groom. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  terrific  gasp  of  relief.] 
Of  course,  I'd  forgotten  the  groom. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

He's  waiting  now.      [He  goes  over  to  the  main 
door.]      Captain,  won't  you  come  in? 

[And  ETIENNE  MARS,  a  handsome  and 
rather  shy  young  soldier,  enters  and  stands 
waiting,  his  cap  in  his  hand.] 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 213 

SOPHIE 

A  moment  before  you  say  a  word.  Let  me  have 
a  look  at  you.  Yes,  at  a  first  glance  I  can  say  I 
like  you,  but  then,  Your  Reverence,  I  like  all  sol 
diers.  A  uniform  has  a  most  direct,  not  to  say,  un 
mentionable  effect  on  me.  Soldiers,  murderers, 
priests  and  poets  are  my  pets.  [Then  to  ETIENNE.] 
Good  evening,  my  lad,  good  evening. 

ETIENNE 

[Bowing  his  best,  though  a  little  clumsily.] 
Madame. 

SOPHIE 

No,  I  don't  think  you  can  ever  qualify  for  His 
Majesty's  ballet. 

ETIENNE 
Madame,  I — 

SOPHIE 

But,  of  course,  you  don't  know  why  you're  here, 
do  you?  [She  points  to  DE  LAURAGUAIS.]  Didn't 
Monsieur  tell  you? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
How  could  I,  Sophie,  when  I  didn't  know? 

ETIENNE 

Madame,  I  do  not  understand  what  this  is  all 
about.  In  a  hurry  I  am  rushed  from  the  Barracks 
on  some  important  orders  from  the  Court.  In 
the  coach  I  try  to  think,  to  wonder  what  is  happen- 


214  SOPHIE  [AcT  III 

ing.  I  question  this  gentleman  here,  but  he  looks 
at  me  very  mysteriously  and  whenever  we  pass 
a  street  lamp,  he  insists  on  stopping  the  coach  and 
reading  me  long  speeches  from  a  manuscript, 
speeches,  which  as  far  as  I  could  understand  them 
had  nothing  to  do  with  me  or  the  life  of  a  soldier. 

SOPHIE 

How  wicked  of  you,  Dorval.  [Then  to  the  boy.] 
You  are  Etienne  Mars? 

ETIENNE 
At  your  service,  Madame. 

SOPHIE 
You  are  a  soldier  and  unhappy. 

ETIENNE 
Madame? 

SOPHIE 

You  do  not  stand  as  though  you  took  pride  in 
your  uniform. 

ETIENNE 
[Angrily.] 

It  is  this  uniform  which  has  given  them  the  power 
to  [he  stops,  why  should  he  go  on  before  these 
strangers]  the  power  to — 

SOPHIE 

To  send  you  to  America,  when  you  leave  your  life 
in  France. 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 215 

ETIENNE 
[Flushing.] 
Madame,  I  would  give  my  life  for  France. 

SOPHIE 
Of  course,  but  your  heart,  my  lad,  your  heart? 

ETIENNE 
Madame, — 

[But  he  is  silent.] 

SOPHIE 
[Smiling.] 

Your  heart? 

ETIENNE 
I— I— 

[She  is  looking  at  him.     He  looks  straight 
back  at  her,  but  is  still  silent.] 

SOPHIE 

[Stepping  nearer  to  him,  her  hand  kindly 
laid  upon  his  shoulder.] 

Of  course,  my  lad,  I  understand.  It  were  less 
brave  to  speak.  I  knew  that  I  would  like  you,  but 
there  is  still  a  test.  We  must  study  your  control 
when  under  fire. 

ETIENNE 

[Straightening  up.] 
My  record  at  the  School  of  Arms,  Madame, — 


216 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

The  School  of  Arms,  la,  la,  sham  battles  and  tar 
gets  of  straw.  Now  you  must  stand  a  genuine  at 
tack,  my  brave  young  soldier.  [Then  suddenly.] 
Attention. 

[And  ETIENNE,  a  bit  mystified,  is  standing 
as  though  on  parade,  as  SOPHIE  flings  open 
the  door  that  leads  to  her  boudoir.] 

SOPHIE 

[Her  voice  lifted.] 

Will  you  please  come  in?  [Then  to  ETIENNE.] 
Watch  out,  my  lad,  the  enemy  is  charging. 

[And  VIVIENNE  stands  on  the  threshold. 
There  is  a  gasp  of  astonishment  from  ETIENNE 
but  he  doesn't  relax  his  military  attitude  until 
the  next  second  with  a  cry  of  delight  the  girl 
is  in  his  arms.] 

VIVIENNE 
Etienne !     Etienne ! — 

[And  THE  ABBE  and  SOPHIE  and  DE  LAUR- 
AGUAIS  stand  watching  them.  A  pause.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[After  a  moment.] 

Yes,  yes,  this  is  all  very  charming,  but  if  some 
thing  doesn't  happen  soon  they  may  stand  that  way 
in  that  picturesque  embrace  for  ever. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  217 

SOPHIE 

They  seem  to  like  each  other,  don't  they?  But 
something  is  going  to  happen,  for  now  they'll  be 
married.  [Then  to  THE  ABBE.]  That's  what  I 
kept  you  here  for. 

THE  ABBE 
But  her  father? 

SOPHIE 
Nonsense,  isn't  marriage  better  than  death? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
That's  a  question  that's  open  to  discussion. 

SOPHIE 

We  shall  be  witnesses.  Well,  Your  Reverence, 
begin,  begin. 

[ETIENNE  and  VIVIENNE  face  about  and  on 
either  side  of  them  stand  SOPHIE  and  DE 
LAURAGUAIS.] 

THE  ABBE 
[His  hand  lifted.] 
My  children — 

[The  loud  rumbling  of  a  coach  on  the  cob 
bles,  which  suddenly  comes  to  a  stop  at  the 
door.  SOPHIE  looks  up.] 

THE  ABBE 
My  children. 


218  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 
You  said  that  before. 

THE  ABBE 
[Reverently.} 
This  is  a  moment — 

[And  indeed  it  is.  For  THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
stands  in  the  doorway  and  the  way  he  looks 
at  SOPHIE  is  something  that  she  understands.} 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 
Madame,  a  word  with  you. 

SOPHIE 

[Her  voice  a  little  unsteady.} 
Well,  what  is  it? 

[And  very  respectfully  he  is  over  next  to 
her  and  is  whispering  something  to  her  behind 
his  hand.} 

SOPHIE 
Good  God !     But  they  have  come  too  quickly. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

Madame  will  ring  when  she  is  ready  to  be  ar 
rested? 

SOPHIE 

Yes.  [Then  she  is  over  to  the  others.}  Quick, 
in  there.  Finish  the  wedding  in  there.  [She 
points  to  the  library.}  Make  haste,  make  haste! 
Weddings  are  always  twice  too  long.  Cut  short 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 219 

the  blessings  and  with  all  expedition  do  the  deed. 
Do  not  linger  at  the  kissing.  There'll  be  time  for 
that,  though  the  time's  not  now.  Bless  you,  my 
children.  Go!  Go!  [Then  suddenly.]  And 
take  this  for  your  gift.  [From  the  harpsichord  she 
takes  the  diamond  crescent  and  gives  it  to  Vivi- 
ENNE.]  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  chaste  Diana. 
Wear  it  tonight  and  tomorrow  have  the  setting 
changed.  Quick,  quick.  [And  they  exit  and  she 
turns  to  THE  FIRST  LACKEY.]  Now  then,  show 
them  in. 

THE  FIRST  LACKEY 

[And  even  his  composure  is  not  quite  poised 
at  perfection.] 
Them,  Madame?     It  is  Saint-Florentin  himself. 

SOPHIE 
[As  a  finality.] 

I  am  Sophie  Arnould  herself.     Let  him  come 
in. 

[And  THE  LACKEY  exits  and  SOPHIE  is 
weakly  lying  on  the  couch  when  the  terrible 
SAINT-FLORENTIN,  Chief  of  Police  and  mar 
tinet  of  morals,  stands  in  the  doorway,  and  be 
hind  him  are  crowding  several  lieutenants  of 
the  police.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Sternly.] 
Madame! 


220 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 
[Quietly.] 
Sir? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  need  I  explain  the  meaning  of  my  visit 
at  this  hour  of  the  night? 

SOPHIE 
Am  I  to  interpret  it  as  a  compliment? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Any  interpretation  that  suits  you,  Madame,  so 
that  we  arrive  swiftly  at  the  facts. 

SOPHIE 
Ah,  that  allows  me  many  ways  out. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

It  is  useless,  Madame,  all  the  exits  to  your  house 
and  garden  are  guarded. 

SOPHIE 

I  would  expect  you  to  be  literal.  Your  profes 
sion  makes  you  so.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  a  way  out 
of  my  house.  I  have  no  intention  of  leaving. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
No,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
[Echoing,  like  a  dove.] 

No. 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 221 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Indeed? 

[He  signals  to  two  of  his  lieutenants,  who 
step  further  into  the  room.] 

SOPHIE 

I  wasn't  thinking  of  a  way  out,  but  of  another 
way  out — of  a  way  to  convince  you  that  whatever 
you  have  come  for  is  a  mistake.  Won't  you  sit 
down? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

I  have  come  to  arrest  you.  There  is  no  need 
of  sitting. 

SOPHIE 

I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't.  There  is  no  rea 
son  why  the  most  disagreeable  things  in  life 
shouldn't  be  done  charmingly. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  if  you  have  any  intention  of  formulat 
ing  a  code  of  manners,  I  can  assure  you  a  lengthy, 
quiet  time  in  which  to  elaborate  your  theories. 

SOPHIE 
Which  means? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

That  within  the  hour  you  will  enjoy  the  silence  of 
Fort  Eveque. 


222 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 
[Pleasantly.} 
Fort  Eveque. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
I  make  myself  clear,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
[Getting  up.} 
Quite. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Are  you  ready? 

SOPHIE 
Well,  not  on  the  second. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
And  what  have  you  to  say? 

SOPHIE 

[Glancing  towards  the  library.} 
That  I  am  sure  your  duty  would  come  first  with 
you  in  the  face  of  all  personal  feeling  whatsoever. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

My  duty  to  my  King  and  to  my  office  first.     Af 
ter  that,  Madame,  what  touches  me  is  my  own. 
[And  his  voice  is  a  little  unsteady.} 

SOPHIE 

Ah,  if  there  were  only  something  that  could 
soften  your  heart,  I  would  plead  to  you  by  that  for 
mercy. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  223 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame,  in  your  case  there  is  nothing. 

SOPHIE 
No? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

You  have  heard  me. 

SOPHIE 

[A  step  nearer  to  him.] 
And  won't  you  listen  to  me? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Drawing  back] 
You  will  be  heard  before  the  bar  at  Fort  Eveque. 

SOPHIE 

[Sitting  down.} 
With  what  am  I  charged? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

With  base  disloyalty  to  our  Sovereign,  Louis, 
King  of  France. 

[He  stands  erect  and  he  and  the  soldiers 
salute  the  name  of  the  King.] 

SOPHIE 

[Imitating  them] 

How  perfectly  the  cue  is  taken.  It's  a  pity  we 
can't  do  things  as  patly  as  that  at  the  opera.  [She 
sings  a  few  notes.]  La,  la,  la.  In  spite  of  every 
thing  still  there. 


224       SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame,  I  have  heard  enough. 

SOPHIE 

That  isn't  very  complimentary.     Now  as  to  the 
charge? 

[From  a  signal  from  SAINT-FLORENTIN  the 
lieutenants  step  forward.] 

SOPHIE 
Wait! 

[Her  voice  is  lifted  with  her  hand.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame! 

SOPHIE 

I  have  the  right  to  demand  in  what  way  I  have 
insulted  the  King. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
No  explanation, — 

SOPHIE 

[Taking  advantage  of  the  words.] 
No,  you  are  right.  [And  now  a  little  more  in 
the  tone  of  injured  heroism.']  I,  disloyal  to  the 
King,  I,  who  have  been  his  servant  since  my  child 
hood,  I,  who  was  stolen  from  my  mother's  arms  to 
serve  with  my  beauty  and  my  art  the  pleasure  of 
my  Sovereign.  Paris  shall  judge  whether  I 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  225 

served  and  sung  to  no  avail.     How  have  I  failed 
or  lacked  in  loyalty? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

You  have  shown  his  Majesty  disloyalty  by  an  out 
rage  committed  on  the  person  of  a  guest  to  the 
throne  of  France.  He  has  been  criminally  mal 
treated  on  a  warrant  which  was  forged.  Are  we 
coming  nearer  to  the  facts? 

SOPHIE 

[Her  eyelids  quivering  a  little.] 
Yes,  as  you  tell  the  tale. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

The  deduction,  Madame,  follows.  After  the 
truth  the  punishment. 

SOPHIE 

[She  has  again  got  up.] 

Of  course,  when  has  truth  been  born  save  of  sor 
row?  But  you  will,  you  must  hear  me. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
I  told  you  that  at  the  prison  you  would  be  heard. 

SOPHIE 

What's  ever  heard  in  prison  but  injustice  and 
the  clank  of  keys?  The  prospect's  not  inviting. 
No.  [Then  with  determination.]  No,  I  will  not 

go- 


226 SOPHIE [Acx  III 

[And  she  sits  down  again  comfortably  ar 
ranging  the  pillows  behind  her  head.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

I  advise  you.  It  will  be  less  pleasant  if  you 
force  me  to  use  force. 

SOPHIE 

You  are  right.  It  will  be.  [And  her  little 
fists  are  pounding  one  of  the  pillows.]  See  how  I 
can  use  my  fists.  And  my  teeth,  my  nice  white 
teeth  [and  she  is  smiling  at  him]  they  are  as  strong 
as  they  are  pretty.  And  my  nails  are  ready,  and 
if  needs  be,  sir,  my  toes — though  I  am  no  dancer, 
sir,  my  toes. 

[A   little  foot  it  threateningly  pointed  at 
him.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Five  soldiers  guard  the  door  there  [he  points  to 
the  main  door9  centre],  and  five  below  surround 
your  garden. 

SOPHIE 

Ten  to  one.  You  compliment  my  sex,  but  from 
the  beginning  we  have  been  the  stronger. 

[And  a  far  away  smile  begins  in  her  eyes 
as  she  half  glances  towards  the  library.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  are  you  proud  of  the  means  that  women 
such  as  you  have  used  to  gain  their  power? 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 227 

SOPHIE 

Judged  from  a  woman's  standpoint,  yes.  But  I 
was  not  thinking  of  myself,  but  of  my  mother. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

[His  lips  tightening,  perhaps  in  a  sneer.] 
Your  mother,  Madame?     If  you  think  thus  to 
move  my  heart. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  gay  little  laugh.] 

I  was  not  thinking  of  my  mother,  but  of  the 
mother  of  us  all.  One  memorable  day  in  Eden 
was  not  woman's  weakness  stronger  than  the 
strength  of  man?  But  then  perhaps  you  do  not 
care  for  apples. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

You  quote  the  scriptures.  Has  your  life  profited 
by  them? 

SOPHIE 

Not  before  perhaps,  but  now  if  you  will  let  me 
I'll  play  the  repentant  Magdalen.  If  I  am  guilty 
there  was  a  reason. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

[Warding  off  the  threatening  emotions.] 
At  the  proper  time  you  will  be  heard. 

SOPHIE 

[And  the  centre  of  the  stage  is  hers.] 
No,  now,  now! 


228 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Firmly.] 
Madame. 

SOPHIE 

[Her  eyes  flashing.] 

Did  this  octogenarian  of  an  ourangutan  tell  you 
why  I  ordered  him  to  leave  my  house?  [And  then, 
with  outraged  modesty.]  Did  that  vile  old  man 
hint  to  you  the  orders  of  his  viler  empress? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
No  reasons  were  sufficient  for  this  outrage. 

SOPHIE 
[Tearfully.] 
Ah,  there  speaks  the  callous  heart  of  man. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

A  criminal  assault  was  made  at  your  command. 
Do  you  deny  it? 

SOPHIE 
No,  I  glory  in  it  and  I  will  not  go  to  Fort  Eveque. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Only  for  tonight,  Madame.  Tomorrow  you  will 
be  sent  to  Metz. 

SOPHIE 

[For  now  she  is  really  frightened.] 
Metz!     No!     For  tomorrow  I  am  to  sing  for 
Paris  and  for  Gluck. 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 229 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

If  you  have  cause,  Madame,  address  your  appeal 
from  prison  to  the  King.  My  duty  and  my  word 
are  law. 

SOPHIE 

Duty!  Law!  Do  you  think  I'll  spend  the  night 
in  jail  because  of  those  two  ridiculous  old  preju 
dices? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Not  only  tonight,  Madame,  but  time  is  passing, 
it  is  useless. 

SOPHIE 

No,  not  yet.  You  will  at  least  permit  me  to 
change  my  gown.  I  will  put  on  something  lighter 
since  Metz  is  in  the  south. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
You  will  wear  the  usual  garb  of  the  prison. 

SOPHIE 

Why,  that  wouldn't  become  me  at  all.  I  must 
change.  You  can't  imagine  how  adorable  I  look 
in  my  dress  of  cream  and  garnet. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me  how  you 
look. 

SOPHIE 

[With  the  most  bewitching  of  glances.'} 
Oh,  it  will  when  you  see  me.     I  will  fetch  the 


230  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

gown.  [She  starts  towards  one  of  the  doors.  The 
soldiers  interpose.]  Oh,  very  well,  I'll  wear  some 
thing  else  if  you  insist.  I  have  a  salmon  crepe  all 
worked  in  emerald  parrots.  That  ought  to  be  very 
gay  in  jail.  It  will  be  nice  for  the  other  prisoners. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[His  eyebrows  meet  in  anger.] 
I've  heard  enough  of  this. 

SOPHIE 

And  one  thing  more.     I  must  take  along  my  little 
bonnet  edged  with  cherries. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Terribly.] 
Madame,  come. 

SOPHIE 

i 

[Pathetically.] 

If  I  must  go  to  prison  let  me  go  looking  my  best. 
Let  it  seem  as  though  I  liked  it. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
You  will  go  now  and  as  you  are. 

[He  makes  a  sign  to  the  soldiers.] 

SOPHIE 
For  the  love  of  God,  a  moment. 

[She  backs  against  the  door  of  the  library 
and  is  attempting  to  hear  what  i$  going  on  in- 
side.] 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 231 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame. 

[The  soldiers  again  step  forward.] 

SOPHIE 

Dorval  would  come  in  if  it's  over.  Have  you 
any  idea  how  long  it  takes  to  get  married?  I've 
never  been,  you  know. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
What,  Madame? 

SOPHIE 
Nothing.     My  mind  wanders. 

[She  is  back  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
The  soldiers  have  taken  her  by  the  arms.] 

SOPHIE 

Just  a  moment,  half  a  moment,  a  tenth  of  a  mo 
ment!  Let  go  of  me,  you  horrid  men!  The  lit 
tlest  part  of  a  moment! 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[To  the  Soldiers.] 
You  know  your  orders? 

[One  of  the  soldiers  takes  a  pair  of  wrist 
irons  from  his  pockets.] 

SOPHIE 
Oh,  those  terrible  things.     Never,  never! 

[She  breaks  from  the  soldiers  and  throws 
herself  at  the  feet  of  SAINT-FLORENTIN.] 


232  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Very  sternly.] 

Madame,  these  melodramatic  gestures  are  in 
vain. 

SOPHIE 

Perhaps  they  are,  but  I  can't  help  it.  You  see, 
I'm  a  prima  donna. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Fiercel  j.] 
Get  up. 

SOPHIE 

[Clinging  to  his  knees.] 
Sir,  by  my  honour  as  a  woman — 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Struggling  from  her.] 
Your  honour  as  a  woman! 

SOPHIE 

Well,  if  that  doesn't  mean  anything  to  you,  then 
by  my  fame  as  a  singer.  I  swear  I  will  not  at 
tempt  to  escape. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Get  up.     This  will  avail  you  nothing. 

SOPHIE 

Not  me,  perhaps,  not  me,  but  have  you  any  idea 
how  long  it  takes  to  get  married? 


ACT  III] SOPHIE 233 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[His  anger  mounting.] 
What  has  marriage  to  do  with  this? 

SOPHIE 

Who  knows?  Grant  me  this  moment  even 
though  it  avail  me  nothing.  [She  still  has  hold  of 
him.]  I  won't  let  go  until  you  do. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[To  his  lieutenants.] 
Wait  at  the  door. 

[The  soldiers  exit.] 

SOPHIE 
Thanks.     Thanks. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

I  will  give  you  till  the  hand  of  your  clock  has 
passed  the  minute. 

SOPHIE 
It's  a  pretty  clock,  isn't  it? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Fiercely.] 
I  said  a  minute. 

SOPHIE 

[Watching  him  very  closely  now.] 
Sir,  if  you  had  a  daughter — 


234 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

[And  his  hand  goes  to  his  heart  as  though 
suddenly  wounded.] 
Madame — 

SOPHIE 

But  I  see  you  haven't.  But  if  you  had  a  daugh 
ter  and  she  were  beseeching  you  as  I  am,  would 
you  not  listen?  Have  you  no  pity  for  a  woman's 
suffering  even  though  you  cannot  understand  it? 
I  am  a  woman,  a  poor  weak  woman.  Do  not  take 
me  to  Fort  Eveque  to-night.  Just  imagine  what  ef 
fect  it  will  have  on  my  voice. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

This  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  laughed  at 
justice  and  flaunted  your  wild  caprices  in  the  face 
of  the  authorities  and  the  police. 

SOPHIE 

If  you  had  a  daughter  would  you  have  expected 
her  to  have  listened  to  the  insults  of  this  diplomat? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Do  you  think  your  career  is  not  known  to  us? 

SOPHIE 

If  my  days  have  not  been  wisely  lived  it  is  be 
cause  I  have  loved  too  much.  [Her  voice  afloat  on 
tears.]  My  head  has  always  been  too  weak,  my 
heart  too  strong. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  235 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
The  minute's  over. 

SOPHIE 
Ah,  you  are  cruel,  but  if  you  had  a  daughter? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[With  quiet  dignity.] 

Madame,  I  had  a  daughter  and  it  is  women  such 

as  you  and  the  libertine  looseness  of  the  life  you 

symbolize  that  has  driven  my  daughter  to  her  death. 

[And  from  the  library  THE  ABBE'S  voice 

can  be  heard  in  a  loud  Amen,  his  sermon  has 

been  a  long  one.] 

SOPHIE 
Her  death? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Paris  has  fallen  on  evil  times.  An  unbridled 
thirst  for  liberty  has  poisoned  the  minds  of  the 
people  and  the  hearts  of  our  children.  There  are 
already  heard  murmurs  against  the  divine  right 
of  kings  and  the  sacred  authority  of  parents. 

SOPHIE 
Sir? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

The  word  of  a  father  is  no  longer  heard.  The 
will  of  a  father  is  but  a  gibe  for  laughter,  and  why, 
why? 


236  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

[Leaning  forward,   for   she  has   got   him 
where  she  wants  him.] 
Why? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Because  women  such  as  you  are  the  adored  idols 
of  the  moment.  Your  licentiousness  is  deemed  a 
virtue  and  your  vile  freedom  is  hailed  as  the  pat 
tern  of  all  law. 

SOPHIE 
Is  there  no  time  for  repentance? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

But  your  reign  is  over.  You,  and  the  others  like 
you.  I  swear  on  this,  Madame,  on  this  [and  he 
takes  from  his  bosom  the  letter  from  VIVIENNE,  wet 
with  the  tears  from  the  flower  vase],  on  this  last 
letter  from  my  child. 

SOPHIE 
Your  only  child? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

On  this,  Madame,  I  swear  that  I  will  make  of 
you,  of  you,  Sophie  Arnould,  so  terrible  and  infam 
ous  an  example  that  hereafter  the  malodorous  his 
tory  of  your  name  and  the  unbridled  looseness  of 
your  life  shall  no  longer  seem  a  shining  virtue  and 
example  to  the  innocence  and  youth  of  France. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  237 

SOPHIE 

You  ought  to  sing.  You  can  say  so  much  in  a 
single  breath. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Towering  over  her.] 

Your  name  and  deeds  shall  be  set  down  in  dis 
honour,  and  be  assured,  Madame,  that  we  shall  give 
you  all  the  time  you  need  behind  the  prison  walls  of 
Metz  to  think  of  this  repentance  at  which  you  scoff. 

SOPHIE 

[Her  analysis  of  him  complete.] 
You're  grim,  that's  what  you  are,  grim. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
I  am  Saint-Florentin  and  I  have  spoken. 

SOPHIE 
Nothing  can  move  your  heart? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Nothing. 

SOPHIE 

[A  step  nearer  to  the  door  of  the  library.] 
What  a  lecture  he's  giving  them.     But  by  now  it 
surely  must  be  over. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

[But  his  lecture  is  not  the  one  she  means.] 
It  is,  Madame,  you  have  heard.     Are  you  ready? 


238 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

SOPHIE 

One  second  now. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[About  to  open  the  centre  door.] 
You  will  go  without  force  or  must  they  drag  you 
out? 

SOPHIE 

No,  that  has  been  done  here  once  before  this 
evening. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame. 

[And  with  a  commanding  gesture  he  points 
towards  the  door.] 

SOPHIE 

And  I  cannot  take  my  bonnet  with  the  cherries? 
[She  begins  to  seem  to  sob.] 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Your  tears  are  wasted. 

SOPHIE 

[With  a  last  melodramatic  plea  for  mercy.] 
And  is  there  no  chance  of  my  escape?     I  am  a 
woman.     Think  of  your  dead  daughter.     Is  there 
no  chance? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
As  much  chance,  Madame,  as  though  at  this  mo- 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  239 

merit  I  might  see  my  dead  child  enter  through  that 
door. 

SOPHIE 

[Pointing  to  the  door  of  the  library.] 
No,  you  mean  that  one.     Oh,  I  don't  know  what 
I'm  saying.     I'm  distraught.     Pity  me,  pity  me. 
Your  dead  daughter — enter  through  that  door — and 
if  she  did? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  I  will  profit  by  the  irony  you  teach  me. 
If  she  did,  then  and  then  only  you  would  be  free. 

SOPHIE 

[The  fox  is  in  the  trap.] 

It  is  an  age  of  miracles.  [And  she  actually 
stands  there  winking  at  him.]  You  granted  me  a 
minute  which  was  mostly  taken  up  with  your  horrid 
lecture.  Now,  I  shall  take  one  more  second  and 
that  will  be  mine. 

[And  she  rushes  over  to  the  door  of  the 
library  and  in  a  voice  of  triumph  shouts.] 

SOPHIE 

If  it's  over,  my  blessings,  my  children,  and 
now,  come  in,  come  in!  [Then  as  VIVIENNE  and 
ETIENNE  stand  in  the  doorway.]  There,  you  ter 
rible  man  you,  I  give  you  back  your  daughter  and 
because  I  know  your  word  is  law  I  am  free. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
What's  this? 


240 SOPHIE [AcT  III 

SOPHIE 

Oh,  don't  say  you're  dreaming.  You're  not. 
[And  vindictively  she  gives  him  a  terrific  pinch.] 
There,  that's  the  usual  test.  Your  daughter  came 
to  me,  she  would  either  marry  Etienne  or  die. 
You're  cruel.  I  know  you  are,  but  not  so  cruel  as 
to  wish  your  child,  your  only  child  rather  dead  than 
married. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Vivienne!     Vivienne! 

VIVIENNE 

[Her  voice  trembling.] 
Father! 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Vivienne,  what  does  this  mean? 

SOPHIE 

It  means  that  if  you  had  been  in  a  more  pleasant 
mood  and  shown  better  manners  that  I  might  have 
invited  you  to  the  ceremony.  But  it's  too  late  now 
and  the  only  way  you  can  make  amends  is  by  being 
nice  to  them.  Look  at  them.  Is  there  anything 
sweeter  or  sillier  than  a  bride  and  groom? 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
Madame,  you  mean? 

VIVIENNE 
Father,  this  is  my  husband. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  241 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 
[Turning  to  SOPHIE.] 
Madame,  you,  you — 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  if  you  want  to,  you  can  send  us  all 
to  Metz.  But  what  good  would  that  do?  And  be 
sides,  what  a  place  to  spend  a  honeymoon. 

VlVIENNE 

[Tremblingly,  tearfully,   coming  close  to 
him.] 
Father, — father,  you  will  forgive  me? 

[He  attempts  to  turn  from  her,  but  it  is  in 
vain  and  the  next  second  she  is  in  his  arms.] 

VlVIENNE 

[Through  her  sobs.] 
You  will  forgive  me? 

SOPHIE 

Of  course,  he  will.  How  else  can  the  comedy 
end?  No  man  is  as  hard  as  he  thinks,  and  as  for 
us  women,—  [The  clock  on  the  mantelshelf  be 
gins  sounding  the  hour.]  Listen,  my  little  clock 
is  striking  twelve,  it  is  midnight,  midnight.  To 
morrow,  sir,  I  sing  and,  so  with  your  permission,  I 
— I — well,  I  will  go  to  bed.  You  will  let  me  kiss 
the  groom?  [And  she  does  so.]  Take  care  of 
your  husband,  my  child.  Husbands  need  it.  How 
shy  he  is,  but  I  like  him  for  it.  You've  brought 


242 SOPHIE [ACT  III 

your  father  a  splendid  son-in-law.  [Then  to 
SAINT-FLORENTIN.]  And  perhaps,  after  all,  sir, 
you  will  acknowledge  I  am  something  of  a  judge  of 
men.  And  now  good-night — good-night. 

SAINT-FLORENTIN 

Madame,  this  time  you  have  outmatched  me,  but 
next  time — 

SOPHIE 

Well,  next  time  I  will  still  be  Sophie. 
[And  they  are  gone.] 

SOPHIE 

At  last  midnight,  midnight.  [She  goes  over  to 
the  door  of  the  library.  She  calls.]  Dorval,  Dor- 
val. 

[There  is  a  moment's  pause  and  DE  LAURA- 
GUAIS  enters,  his  manuscript  in  his  hand.] 

SOPHIE 
It  is  midnight,  Dorval. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
And  Act  Six  is  still  unfinished. 

SOPHIE 
We  are  alone. 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Not  quite,  the  Abbe  is  in  the  library. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  243 

SOPHIE 

[Calling  to  His  Reverence.] 
Come  in. 

THE  ABBE 
[Entering.] 
Is  there  something  else,  my  daughter? 

SOPHIE 
Yes,  you  must  bless  our  midnight. 

THE  ABBE 

[A  quiet,  tolerant  smile  on  his  lips,  for  what 
would  you  have  him  do  when  SOPHIE  bids  it?] 
My  daughter! 

[His  hands  are  lifted  for  the  blessing.] 

SOPHIE 

And  now  go  home  yourself  and  dream  of  para 
dise. 

THE  ABBE 

[Helpless,  for  in  the  end  life  survives  all 
codes.] 
My  children. 

[And  THE  ABBE  very  thoughtfully,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  exits  by  the  main  door, 
centre.] 

SOPHIE 

[Her  voice  soft  and  low.] 
It  is  midnight,  Dorval. 


244  SOPHIE  [Acx  III 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Ah,  what  a  day  I've  had. 

SOPHIE 
But  now  it  is  over. 

[She  is  closer  to  him.] 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

Yes,  all  things  lead  to  all  ends.  Have  you  ever 
thought  of  that,  Sophie?  Today  gives  birth  to  to 
morrow.  What  has  been  is  the  key  to  all  that  is. 
There  shall  be  a  chapter  on  that  thought  in  my  new 
book  of  philosophy. 

SOPHIE 

[Very  tenderly,  very  lovingly,  shaking  her 
head.] 
Dorval!     Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Very  seriously.] 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  that,  Sophie? 

SOPHIE 
Of  what,  darling? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 

How  all  things  lead  to  all  ends?  Have  you  ever 
realized  that  a  wind  blowing  a  leaf  away  in  Eden 
may  be  the  very  reason  that  you  and  I  are  stand 
ing  here. 


ACT  III]  SOPHIE  245 

SOPHIE 

[And  her  tone  tells  a//.] 

Very  likely,  dear.     Very  likely.      [Her  hand  is 
on  his  arm.]     Dorval! 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
What  is  it,  dear? 

SOPHIE 
What? 

[And  her  voice  smiles.] 

0 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
Such  a  day,  such  a  day.     I'm  very  tired. 

SOPHIE 
Very,  dear? 

[And  somehow  one  of  her  exquisite  shoul 
ders  has  slipped  from  her  gown  and  the  pink 
glow  from  the  candelabras  play  about  her  neck 
and  DORVAL  is  not  unmoved  by  the  effect] 

SOPHIE 

[Smiling  up  at  him] 
Very  tired,  dear? 

DE  LAURAGUAIS 
[Kissing  her  shoulder] 
Well,  perhaps  not  so  tired  after  all. 

[And  they  embrace  and  the  next  second 
they  are  gone  into  the  boudoir.  There  is  a 
pause  and  then,  THE  FIRST  LACKEY,  being  the 


246  SOPHIE  [ACT  III 

most  excellent  of  servants,  comes  in  to  wind  the 
clock.  He  is  engaged  in  this  quotidian  favour 
to  time  when  a  sound  arrests  him.  He 
glances  for  a  moment  in  the  direction  of  the 
boudoir  and  then  with  an  expression  in  his 
eyes  which  tells  of  many  things,  many  impor 
tant  things  since  the  beginning  of  time,  he 
quietly,  one  by  one,  blows  out  the  candles  and 
as  the  curtain  falls  is  gone. 


you 

L693 
S0 


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